When all the cakes had been distributed to the men, Father Kulcyanov raised his hands again and then lowered them.
Mike followed the actions of the rest of the men and raised the cake to his mouth, biting into it. In ancient Scotland and England, each year a person would be chosen among the people for ceremonial purposes. There were various methods of choosing, but a bean in a cake, a “bannock,” was one of the most common. The term that was used, the “bannach caillean,” was just about dead on to what he recalled from reading about the ceremony lo those many years ago. Originally, the person had probably been sacrificed to propitiate the gods. Later they were simply subjected to various humiliations and mock sacrifices, such as being cast in the river or mock thrown in the fire. He hoped the Keldara weren’t absolutely authentic; he wasn’t about to stand by and allow an actual human sacrifice.
He fully expected a solid bean to be in the middle. But he didn’t encounter anything on the first bite so he kept munching. It wasn’t hard, the oat cake had been made with a sweetener, probably honey, and covered with a sweet coating; it was quite good.
When he was about half way through the cake he heard a voice cry out on the left side of the fire and saw a Keldara he couldn’t quite place spit out something on his hand.
“Gurun has the bean!” Vil called, laughing. He and another of the Keldara grabbed the sheepish man by the arms and pulled him to his feet. “Into the fire with him!”
“Into the fire!” the rest chanted as the man was dragged to the edge of the blazing bonfire.
“Kildar,” Nielson whispered, seriously.
“Wait,” Mike said. Everyone was grinning at the man’s evident discomfiture; he couldn’t believe even the Keldara would be grinning if Gurun was really going to be sacrificed.
As it turned out, Vil and the other Keldara simply pushed him at the fire, three times Mike noticed, and then pulled him back. After that they sat back down, with Gurun ruefully shaking his head.
“A year of bad luck,” Father Mahona said, leaning over and pointing at the man with his chin. “That’s the fate of the caillean. Do your books speak of this as well, Kildar?”
“Yes,” Mike replied. “And that in the very old days the caillean was sacrificed for the promise of a good harvest.”
“So it is said,” Father Mahona said, sitting back with a blank look on his face.
“I’m glad to see that you’ve dispensed with that practice at least,” Mike said. “I need every militiaman I can get,” he added with a disarming smile.
The choosing of the caillean seemed to be the signal for the party to really commence. The two kegs that had been set on the hilltop were broached and as the younger men lined up on one, the women poured mugs from the second and started to serve the seniors, including the trainers. Mike, naturally, was served first and he used the first mouthful to wash out the last of the oat cake. It had been good, but it was a bit of a mouthful to eat without anything to wash it down.
After everyone had a beer, Sawn, Vil and two Keldara Mike didn’t know gathered between the men and the women. Sawn was carrying a musical instrument that looked something like a small bagpipe while one of the unknown Keldara held a harp and the other a drum. Vil stood between them as they began to play.
“I wonder what McKenzie makes of all of this?” Mike asked. “Get him.”
By the time the Scottish NCO had made his way over to Mike, the players had started to play.
“That’s not a bagpipe, is it?” Mike asked. The instrument was softer and sweeter than any bagpipe he’d ever heard, but had the same continuous undertone.
“Uillean pipe,” McKenzie said crouched behind him. “Similar but it hasn’t got the full throw of a bagpipe. It was for playing indoors. The reason the Scots stuck to the bagpipe was the English outlawed both. You could play the pipe on the moors, get the damned Brits in an uproar and then run away.”
“Or ambush them,” Adams said.
“That too,” the NCO admitted, grinning, as Vil began to sing. “The drum’s a classic bodran, though.”
“What the hell language is that?” Mike asked. He couldn’t catch a word of it.
“It is very old,” Father Makanee said from beside him. “We don’t even know the words anymore. But it is traditional to be sung on the festivals.”
“I wish Vanner was here,” Mike mused. “He might be able to get something from it.”
“He doesn’t have to,” McKenzie said, his voice low and sad. “It’s the Gael. Oh, it’s corrupted, but I recognize the Gael. Even some of the words.” He hummed for a moment and then sang along. “Far is this land we come to, held in thrall by our king. We have followed the flight of the birds and come to this land of mountains. Our duty to guard the something something against the enemy. We only want to go back I’d guess is that word, to our land of water and green.”
“They’re Irish?” Mike asked, aghast.
“I wonder how old the term ‘follow the wild geese’ really is?” Nielson mused. “Most people place it from around the potato famine. But these guys—”
“They’re bloody damned Irish?” McKenzie said, amazed.
“Ah, ah, ah,” Nielson said, shaking his head. “They didn’t come here in any history I know. That means they probably go back far enough that they’re Scots. Remember—”
“We mostly changed places, I know,” McKenzie growled. “You mean they’re Scots?”
“They’re Gael for sure,” Nielson said. “Scots and Irish is quibbling at that antiquity. But how long ago? And how in the hell did they wind up in Georgia?”
“Wait,” McKenzie said, holding up a hand as the song continued. “They traveled from their homes through… I don’t get that part. Into heat and darkness? Many fights they were in, ever victors, and they took much gold. But they were defeated and… I think that’s enslaved but it’s not a Gael word. Their lord was cast down and they were sent here by… someone to be guards. Now they await the day they can return. They are the Keldaran, the homeless ones. They are… I don’t recognize that one.”
“Varangi,” Nielson whispered, having caught the word clearly. “They’re God-be-damned Varangians.”
“What the hell had you and Nielson so worked up last night?” Adams said, sitting down across from Mike.
“Something God damned interesting,” Mike replied.
After the song, the ritual had broken down into party including more singing, but most of that had been in Georgian. He’d ended up with Katrina and Anastasia on his knees, holding a conversation that he tuned out. Probably a bad idea, and Anastasia hadn’t liked it when he more or less ignored her on getting back to the caravanserai. But it had been a long day and he passed out as soon as he hit the bed.
“You were completely checked out last night,” Adams continued. “You and the colonel. You going to give?”
“Yeah,” Mike said. “Call a meeting for around eleven. I’ll try to get you guys to understand it then.”
“The Keldara are the last remnant of the Varangian guard,” Mike said when the whole group of trainers were gathered at the table.
“You’re sure?” Vanner said, excitedly.
“Positive,” Nielson replied, nodding. “Absolutely positive.”
“Fucking cool!” Vanner spat.
“Okay, somebody going to explain what’s got Vanner so excited?” Sergeant Heard asked.
“I think you guys should understand,” Mike replied, nodding. “But you need to really understand. Okay, who’s heard of the Selous Scouts?” He nodded when practically every hand went up. The Rhodesian group was a legend in the special operations community. “Okay, how about the battle at Thermopylae?” Fewer hands at that. “Spartans?” More hands. “Vikings?” Every hand shot up.