Gary Corby: The Marathon Conspiracy

“Yes. So appropriate for your marriage, don’t you think? In any case, only half your song is mine. I sent a runner to the poet Pindar. It seems he once wrote you a praise song that you didn’t stay to hear. That was exceedingly rude of you, lad.”

“Yes. I feel bad about running from him, but at the time there were a bunch of people trying to kill me.”

“Does this sort of thing happen often? That’s a bad habit you’ve acquired. I suggest you break it.”

“Good idea.”

The tune of the Little Bears abruptly changed. Now they sang about me, and the words of the song brought a blush to my cheeks.

“That’s Pindar’s praise song,” Aeschylus said. “I’ve been rehearsing the children all day.”

I took Diotima’s hand and led her between the two columns of Little Bears. The girls threw confetti over us as they sang our song. I led my wife to our room, then shut the door behind us.

Half of Athens waited outside our door. I knew for sure their every ear was bent, to hear what happened next.

Fortunately, the room was well soundproofed.