He was tired. Oh, so very very tired. He'd been working on the Parthenon for nearly 15 years. Almost without break. He'd risen from the ranks, unlike most Athenians, and he took that to mean that the Goddess, Athena herself, was smiling on him. Which made him work all the harder.
From humble tool-carrier to stone-smith and mason, he'd worked the Doric columns, His eye for detail had attracted attention, and soon he was overseer to the masons, and then, after ten years the ultimate accolade. He became foreman.
Of course, although the Parthenon was open, it took another seven years to complete, and in that time he never took a break. And his desire, his need for perfection, in honour of Athena herself, never left him. How he yelled when things were missed. How he roared when the marble cracked. How he bellowed when the bass reliefs of the Metopes split and shattered.
And now it was over. And he was pleased, for his voice was gone. No more could he yell. He could hardly even croak.
He was Bob, the Hoarse Foreman of the Acropolis ...