The Cult of Osiris

the yeast cultures in the Swiss laboratory. ‘There are two canopic jars that can say which of us is right, Dr Wilde - the jar of Duamutef,’ he held up the jackal-headed container, ‘and the jar of Qebehsenuf. I’m willing to sacrifice one to learn what is in the other. Dr Kralj, which would be better for your test? The intestines, or the stomach?’

‘Anything in the intestines would have been through the digestive process,’ said the Serbian scientist. ‘If there are spores present which survived that, there are likely to be more in the stomach. So the intestines, yes.’

‘Then do it.’

Kralj collected the falcon-headed jar. ‘No, wait,’ pleaded Nina. ‘That jar’s an incredibly valuable artefact. If you open it, you might as well be destroying it.’ She looked at Berkeley. ‘Logan, you’ve got to have some feelings about this.’ She knew she had struck a nerve - he couldn’t keep a conflicted expression off his face - but he said nothing. ‘Is however much he’s paying you worth this?’

‘Dr Berkeley knows a good deal when he is offered one,’ said Osir, as Kralj set up a small folding table and placed the jar on it, taking more equipment from a case. ‘It’s a shame you didn’t. If you hadn’t betrayed me, we would still have been in this room together - only you would be in charge, not a prisoner.’

Shaban kept Nina, Eddie and Macy at gunpoint, two of his troopers joining him with their MP7s raised. Everyone else watched as Kralj worked on the jar. After laying out a line of small bottles containing colourless liquids, some test tubes and a portable microscope, he examined the carved lid, then used a metal pick to peel away the black resin sealing it. Once it was clear, he looked up at Osir, who nodded.

He carefully turned the lid. The two pieces of ancient pottery scraped against each other . . . then, with a faint crackle as the last remnants of the seal broke, they separated.

‘Whoa, shit,’ said Eddie, as the stench of something awful permeated the chamber. ‘Literally. Smells like his last meal was a kebab!’

Nina suppressed her revulsion. ‘It means the seal held, though. The contents were preserved for all this time.’

Kralj used a penlight to examine the jar’s interior. Something glistened inside. He tipped three of the bottles into it, swilling the mixture round, then used a large pipette to draw out a sample of the resulting dark slurry. He squirted it into a test tube, then added the last bottle’s contents.

‘This will take several minutes,’ he told Osir as he sealed the tube. ‘If there are any spores, the test will show them.’

‘Then we’ll make use of the time,’ Osir replied. He signalled to one of the troopers. ‘Open the sarcophagus.’

‘For God’s sake,’ said Nina, appalled. ‘This just gets worse. What are you going to do, autopsy the mummy?’

‘That’s what you’re most worried about?’ Macy said, eyeing the guns.

Like the canopic jars, the coffin had been sealed with a thick black mixture of resin and bitumen. One of Osir’s men carried a small circular saw, which he used to slice into the protective layer as he made his way round the sarcophagus. Another man followed, using a power tool with an abrasive head to grind open the seal along the cut.

It took them a few minutes to complete their circuit. ‘Open it,’ Osir ordered. Another two men came to the sarcophagus, the group assembling jacks on each side and inserting chrome-steel forks into the now exposed gap beneath the lid.

‘Ready, sir,’ said one man.

Osir gave Nina a satisfied look, then nodded. ‘Do it.’

The four men worked the jacks. Metal creaked, the seal cracking and splintering. One of the forks slipped slightly and gouged the metal, making Nina cringe at the damage.

‘Come on!’ Shaban barked impatiently. ‘Harder!’

The men increased their efforts, straining to lift the heavy lid. A deeper grind came from inside the sarcophagus, then with a jolt it opened. Grunting, they raised the silver figure of Osiris to the full height of the jacks . . . revealing another figure inside.

But this was not a sculpture. This was Osiris himself.

Or what was left of him. The body was mummified, tightly wrapped in a discoloured shroud, arms folded over its chest. The head was covered by a death mask, silver and gold shaped to match the face beneath. Unlike the famous burial masks of pharaohs like Tutankhamun and Psusennes, this was surprisingly modest, lacking their elaborate headdresses. If the mask were an accurate representation of the dead ruler, Osiris had possessed a surprisingly youthful appearance for one so powerful and revered.

Everyone leaned closer to look, even Kralj glancing up from his work. The recess in which the body lay had been matched almost perfectly to its shape, less than a centimetre to spare all round it. The lid had its own precisely shaped indentation set into the solid metal.

Osir gazed down at the man from whom he had taken his name. ‘Osiris,’ he whispered. ‘The god-king, granter of eternal life . . .’

‘You almost sound like you believe it,’ Nina scoffed.

‘A month ago, would you have believed Osiris was not just a myth?’ he countered. ‘Perhaps there’s more truth here than either of us thought.’

‘Not your version of the truth. You know, the skip-the-awkward-parts one you push on your followers.’

‘Who is to say that my interpretation of the story of Osiris is any less valid than another?’ said Osir smugly. ‘In fact, I’d say that this,’ he indicated the mummy, ‘makes it more valid. I found the tomb of Osiris because I was destined to find it. It proves I really do possess the spirit of Osiris. Wouldn’t you say?’

‘No, and nor would you if you were actually being honest with the dopes who hand you their money.’ Osir merely chuckled, but she noticed Shaban’s face tensing once more.

Before she could remark on it, Kralj looked up from his microscope. ‘Mr Osir!’

Osir went to him. ‘What’s the result of the test?’

Kralj carefully removed a slide from the microscope. ‘The test result,’ he said excitedly, ‘is . . . positive. There are spores of a yeast strain present.’

Osir could barely contain his exultation. ‘Oh, yes! Yes!’ He clenched his fists in glee. ‘I was right! The story of the bread of Osiris was true - and it’s going to make me rich, Sebak, rich beyond belief!’ He clasped his hands round his brother’s shoulders and shook him. ‘Rich!’

Shaban seemed disgusted. ‘Money. Is that all that matters to you?’

‘Of course not.’ Osir grinned and lowered his voice to a fake whisper. ‘There is the sex, too!’ He cackled.

‘You are pathetic,’ Shaban said coldly. ‘A disgrace to our family, and an insult to the gods. And I am no longer going to let that insult stand.’ The gun came up . . . and pointed at his brother’s chest.

Osir at first didn’t seem to register it, his mind refusing to accept what his eyes were seeing. ‘What are you doing, Sebak?’ he finally said with a half-laugh, which faded as he looked into Shaban’s face and saw nothing there but anger and hatred. ‘Sebak? What is this?’

‘This is the end, my brother,’ he spat. ‘You have had your pleasures, you have had everything that you never worked for and never deserved!’ He pushed Osir back against the sarcophagus.

Fear rose through Osir as he realised his brother was deadly serious. He looked desperately at the troopers. ‘Someone - someone take his gun.’ The men stared back, stone-faced. ‘Help me!’

‘They are not your followers,’ hissed Shaban with a thin, sneering smile. ‘They are mine. All your followers will now worship me - or they will die.’

Berkeley backed away nervously. ‘What’s - what’s going on?’

‘What’s going on, Dr Berkeley,’ said Shaban, ‘is that I am taking my rightful place as the head of the Temple. I am taking my birthright!’ He glared at the mummy behind Osir - then spat on it. ‘Osiris - pah! Set was the stronger brother. Set was the greater brother, but he was kept down by Osiris out of fear!’ He was shouting now, spittle flying from his mouth. ‘That time is over! My time has come! I am taking what is mine!’ His voice rose to a demented scream. ‘I am Set! I am reborn!’

Osir stared at him in horror. ‘What . . . what’s wrong with you?’ he gasped. ‘You’re not Set - I’m not Osiris! We - we are the sons of a baker, Sebak! Nobody has been reborn - it’s not real! I made it