The Cult of Osiris

But in a few moments, maybe he would be blind . . .

She knew what came next in the sound and light show, having heard it every night. The narrator was about to begin his tale of Khufu, builder of the Great Pyramid - and the lights would briefly drop to black before illuminating Khufu’s monument at full brightness.

Macy closed her eyes, waited . . .

The lights went out.

She opened her eyes again and raced for the tent. Only a few seconds before the Great Pyramid lit up like a beacon—

Dramatic music thundered from the loudspeakers, the Great Pyramid exploding into view to the northwest. Macy reached the gap in the netting and skidded to a halt behind one of the stacks of bricks. She glanced round it and saw the guard staring at the floodlit structure.

She let out a breath, feeling something she hadn’t felt since first arriving in Egypt: excitement. No, that had been more like anticipation, but this was a genuine, almost child-like thrill. This was fun!

Holding in a nervous giggle, she looked at the tent. Now that she was closer, she could hear the chug of a generator - but only faintly, and with an odd echo. She checked again that the guard wasn’t looking in her direction, then crept to the tent.

Nobody was inside.

‘The hell?’ Macy wondered aloud, slipping in. One end was taken up by a makeshift cubicle of cheap particle board. Since it was little more than three feet wide, she doubted Gamal and the others were huddled within.

But she lost interest in it when she saw what was at the tent’s other end.

A trestle table had construction blueprints spread out across it; she recognised the topmost as a plan of the Sphinx compound. What had caught her attention, though, wasn’t on the table, but hanging on the tent wall above it. Large colour photographs, blow-ups of ancient papyrus scrolls. The same scrolls that had brought her here in the first place.

The Hall of Records, a repository of ancient Egyptian knowledge beneath the Sphinx that was reputedly only surpassed by the Library of Alexandria, had long been considered nothing more than a myth. But a privately funded archaeological dig in Gaza had discovered papyrus pages that described not only the Hall itself, but also how to get into it - through a passage that had once descended between the Sphinx’s paws. When the pages were scientifically confirmed to be over four thousand years old, the Hall suddenly became one of the hottest topics in archaeology, and the Egyptian government granted the International Heritage Agency’s request to conduct the dig that would confirm whether or not what was said on the Scrolls was true.

The problem, Macy knew, was that the IHA had only been given three scrolls.

Yet here was a fourth.

She moved closer, silently mouthing the words as she translated the text. The ancient language had been taught to her by her grandfather along with Egyptian history and mythology, his hobby eventually influencing her choice of degree. The new scroll said more about the Hall of Records than the IHA had seen: not just its position, but its contents. Something about a map chamber, a zodiac, that revealed the location of . . .

‘The Pyramid of Osiris?’ Macy whispered in disbelief. That was nothing but another of her grandfather’s myths, surely? Osiris was a legend pre-dating even the First Dynasty of almost five thousand years ago, and legends didn’t have big-ass tombs built for them, only pharaohs.

But that was what the papyrus said. The Pyramid of Osiris, the tomb of the god-king. No suggestion that it was a myth; the text seemed as factually descriptive as it was about the Hall of Records. ‘Whoa,’ she said as she realised what that meant. If the Pyramid of Osiris was real, then so was the man buried inside it. Not a legendary god, but a flesh and blood ruler, until now lost in time. If his tomb could be found, it would be one of the greatest discoveries in history . . .

She looked at the plans on the table. The position of the east-west entrance tunnel to the Hall of Records and the IHA excavation were both clearly marked - as was another, longer tunnel from the north.

It crossed under what was now the modern road and ran, she realised, directly beneath the tent in which she was standing.

Macy turned to the wooden cubicle. The panel facing her was hinged, a roughly cut hole acting as a handle. She eased it open.

Now she knew where the three men had gone. Down. A ladder descended into a shaft, dim lights revealing the bottom over twenty feet below. The hose expelling the generator’s exhaust fumes ran up one corner, the machine now clearly audible.

As were voices.

Getting closer.

Excitement fled Macy, replaced by fear. Someone was running their own secret dig, trying to beat the IHA team into the Hall of Records. Trying to find the Pyramid of Osiris for themselves.

Which meant that if she was caught in here . . . she was in trouble.

What should she do? Tell someone - Berkeley or Hamdi? But Gamal was obviously in on it, and they would believe him over her. She needed proof . . .

Weight in her thigh pocket. The camera.

She pulled it out and switched it on. The wait for the lens to extend and the screen to light up had never seemed so long.

A rattling sound from the shaft. Someone climbing the ladder.

Throat tight with rising panic, Macy took a picture of the four papyrus pages, then tipped the camera down to capture the blueprint. Click—

‘What the fuck?’ The shout came from below, the accent American. The guy with the snakeskin jacket. He had seen the flash.

Another shout. The guard outside. Macy heard his footsteps thudding towards the tent. The clattering of the ladder was louder, faster, as the man hurried up it.

She ran—

The guard threw open the tent flap - just as Macy burst through, shoving him aside and sprinting for the temple. She was through the plastic netting before he regained his balance.

‘Hey!’ she shouted, hoping somebody from the IHA dig would hear her, but her voice was drowned out by the light show’s narration. Behind, Shaban screamed orders to catch her.

Fright spurred her on. She rounded the ruin, the shadowed maze of the Temple of the Sphinx spread out below, ominously lit in shards of red and green. Someone was on the walkway—

‘Dr Hamdi!’ Macy cried. ‘Dr Hamdi, help!’

Hamdi stopped, looking bewildered as she leapt over the gap to land in front of him. ‘What is it, miss - Macy, isn’t it?’

‘Back there!’ she gasped. ‘They’re digging, they’re trying to rob the Hall of Records!’

‘What? What are you talking about?’

Macy looked back as the guard ran round the side of the upper temple, slithering to an uncertain halt when he saw Hamdi. ‘That guy with the scar, Shaban, he’s in charge! He’s got a fourth scroll - I took a picture!’ She thumbed a button to bring up the image. ‘Look!’

Hamdi’s expression changed from confusion to shock. ‘I see. Come with me.’ He took her by the arm . . .

And gripped, painfully tightly.

‘Hey, what—’ Macy said, trying to pull free. He squeezed harder. ‘Let go!’

He ignored her. The guy in the snakeskin jacket ran into view. ‘Bring her up here!’ he yelled.

Hamdi pulled Macy towards the gap. She thrashed at his face, but he deflected her blows with his free hand. The guard ran towards them—

She fired the camera in Hamdi’s face. He flinched, dazzled by the flash - and Macy smashed the camera’s hard edge against the bridge of his nose. Another strike to his forehead, and she wrenched herself from his grip.

The guard leapt across the gap, blocking the way to the Sphinx. Instead, she ran along the walkway - and saw the two guards from the compound gate rushing at her.