On the afternoon that it was his turn to keep watch on the cave, Pinarius decided to act. The day was hot and the air was heavy with sleep. The rest of the settlers dozed, except for Potitia, who knew of her cousin’s plan and gave him a kiss for luck before he began the climb.
From above, there came a faint noise that they took to be the sound of the monster snoring. Perhaps it was the buzzing of flies, drawn to the cave by blood and gore. Potitia remembered summer afternoons when she had dozed in the shadowy coolness of the cave. She could picture the monster asleep in that familiar, beloved place. The image made her shiver, yet it also pierced her with a sadness that she could not explain. For the first time she wondered where the monster came from. Were there others of his kind? Surely a mother had given birth to him. What fate had led him to the
The sound that might have been the monster’s snoring abruptly stopped. Potitia felt a shiver of dread.
Pinarius reached the mouth of the cave. He pulled himself onto the lip of stone, gained his balance, and grinned down at her. He pulled out his knife and showed her the blade, then disappeared into the cave.
The scream that followed was like nothing she had ever heard, so loud that it woke every sleeper in the village. A rending noise followed, then silence. A few moments later, Pinarius’s head came flying from the hole in the hillside. It landed with a thud in the grass just beyond Potitia, who fell to the ground in a faint. Dazed, with the sun in her eyes and swooning from the heat, she looked up and saw Cacus standing on the lip of stone high above, staring down at her. His hulking, misshapen body was covered with blood and gore. The sound that came from his throat—“Cacus? Cacus?”—had a low, urgent, questioning quality, as if he gazed at a thing which fascinated him, from which he desired a reply.
“Cacus?” he uttered again, cocking his head and staring down at her.
Potitia scrambled to her feet. Running blindly, she tripped over the head of Pinarius. She gave a shriek and staggered back to the settlement, weeping.
The death of Pinarius drove many of the settlers to the limit of their endurance. His father, also named Pinarius, argued that the time had come to abandon the settlement. The monster had inflicted great suffering, and against him they were powerless; but more than this, the arrival of the creature had unleashed a great evil in the land of the
“If we leave, cousin, what will keep the monster here?” asked Potitius. “I think he’ll follow us. He’ll stalk us on the trail. Our children will be his prey.”
“Maybe,” acknowledged Pinarius. “But in the open, away from his cave, we might at least have a chance to kill the thing.”
Potitius shook his head. “This creature is a far more skillful hunter than any of us. We’d have no chance against him in the wild. One by one, he would take us.”
“That’s what he’s doing now!” Pinarius wept, grieving for his son.
The argument was not settled, but it seemed to Potitia that it was only a matter of time until Pinarius would prevail. The
Then the stranger arrived.
It was the lowing of oxen that woke Potitia that morning. There had been no oxen in the market for a long time. At first, she thought she must be dreaming of the old days before the coming of Cacus. But as she stirred and rose, the sound of the oxen continued. She hurried from the hut to see what was happening.
Sure enough, a small herd of oxen was standing in the slanting sunlight in the meadow on the far side of the Spinon, peacefully eating the grass that grew near the foot of the hill where Cacus dwelled. Near the herd, sitting on the ground and leaning against a tree trunk, was the ox-driver. His eyes were closed and his head was tilted to one side; he appeared to be asleep. Even at a glance, and at such a distance, Potitia was quite certain she had never seen him before. For one thing, he was much larger than any other man she had ever seen, except Cacus, if Cacus could be called a man. Unlike Cacus, he was not at all ugly or frightening to look at. Indeed, he was quite the opposite. She found herself crossing the steppingstones that traversed the Spinon and walking toward him.
“Potitia! What are you doing?” Her father, along with most of the other settlers, had gathered near the empty cattle pen. They were watching the stranger from a safe distance, trying to decide whether he should be approached, and who should do it. Potitia realized that they were afraid of the stranger, but she did not share their fear.
As she stepped closer, she saw that his mouth was slightly open, and she heard him softly snoring. His hair was long and black. His beard was thick. Everything about him was oversized. His strong, rugged face was a match for his brawny shoulders and arms. Potitia decided that he was by far the most handsome man she had ever seen, even though he looked slightly ridiculous, sitting there snoring.
Over his shoulders he wore a pelt of some sort, tied across his chest by the animal’s forelegs. The fur was a tawny gold, and the paws were tipped with formidable claws. Potitia realized that it was the pelt of a lion, and she regarded the stranger with even greater curiosity.
He must have sucked in a flying insect, for suddenly he bolted forward, instantly awake. He made a face and spat convulsively. The group gathered across the stream let out a collective gasp of alarm, but Potitia laughed. To her, the ox-driver looked more ridiculous—and more appealing—than ever.
He picked a fly from his mouth, gave a shrug, then looked up at her and smiled.
Potitia sighed. “You can’t stay here.”
He frowned.
“Your oxen aren’t safe here,” she explained.
His gaze was uncomprehending. Could it be that he had not heard of Cacus? He must have come from very far away, she thought. When he spoke, her suspicion was confirmed. She could not understand a word he said.
A dog that had been lying near the oxen rose to its feet and ambled toward them, wagging its tail. The ox-driver shook his head. He wagged his finger at the dog and said something in a gently chiding tone. Clearly, it was the dog’s job to wake him if anyone approached the oxen while he was sleeping, and the dog had not done its duty.
The ox-driver stood and stretched his massive arms above his head. He was even taller than Potitia had thought. Craning her neck to look up at him, she felt very small, like a child. Unconsciously, she reached to her throat and touched the gold amulet. The ox-driver gazed at Fascinus for a moment, then looked into her eyes. His gaze stirred certain feelings in her, and Potitia knew that she was not a child any longer but a woman.
Try as they might, the settlers seemed unable to communicate to the stranger the peril he faced by staying in the meadow so near the cave of Cacus. They pointed, they mimed, they spoke in all the various dialects they had learned from traders. The man did not understand.
“I’m not sure he has all his wits,” said Potitia’s father.
“We shall wake tomorrow to find his dead body lying at the foot of the hill,” grumbled Pinarius.
“What terrible things to say! I think you’re both wrong,” said Potitia. She smiled at the ox-driver, who smiled back.
Pinarius exchanged a sidelong glance with his cousin and lowered his voice. “On many important things we disagree, Potitius, but I think one thing is evident to us both. Your daughter is smitten by this stranger.”
“He
Pinarius shook his head and spat. “It shall come to grief. Mark my words!”
The afternoon became sweltering as the midsummer sun beat down upon the
As the settlers believed there were numina in places and objects, so they also believed that numina informed certain phenomena, such as sleep. Like other numina, those of sleep could be friendly or unfriendly. Sleep could heal the weary and the sick and give comfort to the grieving. Sleep could also render even the strongest man utterly helpless.
That afternoon, the numina of sleep descended upon the settlement like a hand upon the brow of an infant, shutting the eyes of the settlers whether they wished to close them or not. Men fought to stay awake, and lost the battle without even knowing it.
The oxen slept. The dog slept. The ox-driver also slept, leaning back against the tree where Potitia had first seen him.
Potitia did not sleep. She sat in the shade of an oak tree and studied the stranger, wondering what the future might hold for her.
There was another who did not sleep. With his long arms and immense strength, Cacus had found a way to climb down from the cave that even Potitia did not know about. Brambles kept him hidden at almost every point as he descended. If he exercised great stealth and did not cause a single leaf to tremble or a shard of stone to give way underfoot, his movement down the face of the cliff was very nearly invisible. Even if the boy who had been set to watch the cave that day had not been dozing, Cacus probably would have descended unseen.
Cacus was not aware of the coming of the stranger, but he had heard the lowing of the oxen. He had not eaten beast-flesh in many days.
Across the meadow, he caught sight of the oxen. He took no notice of the ox-driver or Potitia. Both were nearby, but both were very still, and obscured by the dappled shade of the trees. He chose the smallest of the oxen and made his way toward it. Not a single twig broke beneath his feet; it was a remarkable thing that a creature so large and ungainly could move so quietly upon the earth. Nonetheless, the ox sensed danger. It swished its tail, rose to its feet, and uttered a low bleat. The beast saw Cacus, took a step back, then froze.
When he reached the ox, Cacus did not hesitate. He clamped his fists together, raised them in the air, and landed a hammer-like blow upon the ox’s forehead.
The ox snorted once, shuddered, and fell dead. It struck the earth with a heavy thud. The other oxen stirred and began to mill about. The dog’s ears twitched, but he remained asleep.
Potitia, who had just nodded off, gave a start. She opened her eyes and saw that the monster was no more than ten paces away. She sucked in a breath and would have screamed, but her throat was suddenly so tight that no sound would come out.
She jumped to her feet. Her first thought was to wake to the ox-driver, but to do that, she would have to run past the monster. She turned and ran in the other direction, away from the settlement, toward the cave.
Cacus’s eye was drawn by the movement. He caught a glimpse of her amid the high grass, and recognized her at once. He ran after her.
His legs were mismatched, but very long and powerful. When it suited him, he could run with incredible speed. The flies that had been buzzing about the oxen followed after him in a swarm, drawn by the odors of blood and rotting flesh that clung to him.
Potitia’s foot struck an exposed root and she went flying. Perhaps it was as the elder Pinarius said: All the numina of the
But Cacus had no intention of killing her.
The ox-driver slept, dreaming of the faraway land of his childhood. It was a dream of sunshine and warm meadows, lowing oxen and singing cicadas.
Then, in an instant, he was awake.
One of the oxen stood over him, urgently pressing its cold, wet snout against his cheek. The stranger grunted with disgust, wiped his face with the back of his hand, and looked about.
At once he saw the cause of the ox’s distress. One of its companions was lying in the grass nearby, utterly still and in a most unnatural position. Where was the dog? He saw it curled up on the grass not far away. The dog yawned, briefly opened its eyes, then shut them again and resettled itself more comfortably.
The ox-driver cursed and jumped to his feet.
He heard a muffled sound that might have been a woman’s scream and ran toward it.
What he saw first was a swarm of flies above a depression in the high grass. Then he caught a glimpse of bare, hairy flesh—the hunched back of Cacus, moving up and down and this way and that. The ox-driver moved forward more cautiously, not sure what sort of man or beast he was approaching. Punctuating the gasps and groans and slavering noises was a curious, guttural sound: Cacus…cacus…cacus!
Then he heard a sound that chilled his blood—the scream he had heard before, from a woman in great distress.
The ox-driver gave a shout. The hunched back suddenly ceased moving. A face, shockingly hideous, rose above the high grass and peered at him. The creature snarled, gave a cry of indignation—“Cacus!”—then rose to its full height. That the creature was male became evident by the virile member displayed between its legs. Beneath the creature, still hidden by the grass, the woman let out a plaintive sob.
The ox-driver was not used to encountering anything that walked on two legs that was as big as himself; this creature was bigger. Nor had he ever encountered a creature as loathsome to look at as Cacus. Revulsion rose in his throat, and an unaccustomed emotion washed over him—the cold prickle of fear. The lion whose skin he wore he had killed with his bare hands, but a lion seemed a minor menace compared to Cacus.
The ox-driver braced himself and gave another shout, challenging the creature to fight. A moment later, with a deafening roar, Cacus hurtled toward him.
The sheer mass of the creature struck the ox-driver with bruising force, knocking him to the ground. The stench of the creature’s breath filled his nostrils. The taste of the creature’s foul sweat mingled on his tongue with the bitter flavor of dirt as they tumbled on the ground. The flies that swarmed around the creature buzzed in the ox-driver’s ears and flew into his nostrils and eyes, tormenting and distracting him.
With the creature atop him, crushing him, the ox-driver frantically reached for anything that might serve as a weapon. His hand closed on a fallen branch. He swung it with all his might. A shuddering impact ran through his arm as the branch broke against the creature’s skull. The piece that remained in his fist was jagged and sharp; he stabbed it against the creature’s flank. A scream pierced his ears. Hot blood ran over his hand, causing him to lose his grip on the weapon. The creature bolted up and away from him.