The Neophyte

Tyron is a babe in arms again.  He savors the comfort of his mother’s embrace, breathing in the sweet essence of her pachouli as he snuggles against her breast.  He looks up at her smiling face, her sandalwood brown eyes, and the rich curly locks of auburn hair cascading around her shoulders.  She kisses his nose and whispers “I love you sweet boy”.  He can feel her breath and the soft brush of her lips against his ear…

“Tyron.  Wake up.”  With a mild jab of his staff Tyron’s squad leader rouses him from his dream.  The sixteen years between that memory and his present reality evaporate into thin air like the morning fog rising above the harbor in the distance.

Tyron stands from his pallet and straightens his blanket.  He walks out to the garden where a dove coos from beneath the eaves of their dormitory.  The scent of jasmine drifts on the breeze.  Each morning, he sweeps and cleans the walkways and patios before breakfast.  After his chores, he goes to the dining hall where he and the other students quickly consume a single boiled egg with a slice of bread and a cup of orange juice.

Tyron has been a student at the assassin’s guild school for eight years.  His mother died when he was two, and as there was no father in Tyron’s life, an uncle took him in.  As a child, Tyron was strong, smart, and rebellious.  The uncle, who already had many children of his own, got word to Bharat, the school’s headmaster, that he had an available candidate.  Bharat came to evaluate the boy around his tenth birthday.  The headmaster liked what he saw, and Tyron left that day to join the school.

At morning muster Bharat, reads the plan of the day.  Tyron and a squad of fellow trainees are tasked with a trip to the local street market to bring back provisions for the school.  In the market, they pick up rice and bread, coconuts and dates, fresh fish, lamb, olive oil, flour, salt and oranges.  Tyron’s mouth waters at the sight of some other items they are rarely allowed to enjoy – pomegranates, sesame candies, marzipan and freshly-baked cakes, muffins, and fruit pies.  But those are not on their list today.

There is also a merchant of fabrics in the market with an attractive display of fine, colored silks and satins for robes and turbans.   And next to him is a shoemaker offering handsome shoes and boots in a range of colors of dyed Spanish leather, adorned with gold trim and sequins.  These clothing items hold a particular fascination for Tyron, as he has worn only a plain muslin tunic and simple leather sandals for the last eight years.  As a young man coming of age, he is beginning to yearn for some of the finer elements of life.

Living conditions for a probationer at the school are austere, being modeled after the upbringing of boys in ancient Sparta.  Their training imparts the necessary attributes and skills of an assassin, preparing them to operate effectively even under the most challenging conditions.  Students are provided with food, clothes, and lodging.  But they are denied the ordinary pleasures that most young people take for granted. 

Money, for instance, never crossed their palms.  Tyron had not had a single coin in his pocket during eight years under his master’s tutelage.  In his early years at the school, material things held almost no value for him, but now he is beginning to crave the self-determination and freedom he believes money would provide.

Tyron and his cohorts are nearly finished with their errands when he notices a hooded stranger shadowing his movements.   He uses the cover of a large pillar to quickly slip in among the shoppers and double back behind the stranger.  When he is within arm’s reach, he grabs the man firmly by the arm and stands close behind hm.  He presses the point of a small knife against his side.

“Come quietly, or I’ll put this blade into your kidney,” he whispers into the man’s hood.  He guides him into a nearby alley and spins him around.  “Who are you and why are you following me?” 

“You are a student of Bharat’s, no?”

“What business is that of yours?”

“I represent a client who seeks a qualified hand to, shall we say, take care of some delicate business.   Can I interest you in a little outside work?”

“It is not allowed.”  Tyron turns away, but the stranger gently touches his arm.

“My client would pay generously.  If you are interested, meet him in the alleyway behind the fountain at midnight tonight.”  With his head down, the hooded stranger turns and blends back into the marketplace crowd.  Tyron watches him until he is out of sight, then returns to his squad.  They divide up the load of provisions and carry them back to the academy. 

The proposal lingers at the edges of Tyron’s mind for the remainder of the day.   He wonders what the assignment might be and how much it would pay.  He imagines all of the things he could do with the money. 

But in the end, he does what he feels is right.  After the evening meal, he tells his squad leader that he needs to speak with Bharat.  The leader accompanies him to the master’s quarters and escorts Tyron in to see him.  

Bharat sits comfortably on a raised dais, reclining on a pile of colorfully decorated carpets.  He is not a young man but remains trim and fit for his age.  The venerable mentor wears flowing robes embossed with gold trim and a matching turban.  His room is appointed with hand woven rugs, several chaise lounges, and a large bed draped with rich fabrics set against one wall.  Brass service ware and copper statuary decorations on display tastefully reflect the master’s status.  A display of daggers, swords, and shields adorn one wall.

Tyron’s squad leader announces him.  Bharat looks them both over, then excuses the leader with a wave.  He scrutinizes the young man standing at attention before him.  Tyron notices how years of hard living and violence have added rich character to his master’s face.  Darkened by the Levantine sun and crisscrossed with scars, his visage reflects authority and demands respect. His black eyes gleam with wisdom and self-assurance. 

“And what is so urgent that you require my personal attention?” Bharat asks.  His voice is deep and commanding.

Tyron describes his encounter with the mysterious messenger in the marketplace.  “Of course, I told him that what he was proposing was not allowed and that I was not interested.  I sent him on his way.”

“I am pleased that you are reporting the encounter to me.  But why did you not come to me immediately upon your return from the market?  Did you spend all day thinking about it?  Considering whether you would slip out tonight to find out what it was all about?”

“No!” Tyron nearly shouted.  Then he took a cleansing breath.  “No, Master.  It was a busy day.  As soon as we returned with the supplies, I had weapons training, then lunch, then afternoon classes.  I decided I would tell you before lights out.  Please do not mistake my poor timing for any lack of loyalty on my part.”

Bharat smiled.  “Very well.  Here,” he said, gesturing to a seat near the dais. “Come and sit.”  Tyron awkwardly crosses the room and sits gingerly on the chaise. “This was a test, Tyron.”

“Master?”

“Your mysterious messenger was an actor.  The invitation was not real.  In fact, if you had decided to appear in that alley tonight, one of my former students would have been waiting there to put a dagger in your heart.”

Tyron feels as if a large stone has suddenly dropped into his gut.

“I can only imagine how you feel at this moment.  But congratulations.  It is time for you to move on in your training.  I have an assignment for you.  And, on successful completion, I will pay you for it.  In addition to the payment, you will forever after be regarded as a qualified member of our guild.”

“I am honored, Master.”

Bharat goes on to describe the mission, which requires the death of a young woman and her infant son.  He gives Tyron the address and physical descriptions of his targets.  He tells him that the woman is known to spend a few hours each morning playing with her baby in their garden, which may present the right opportunity to carry out his assignment.

Tyron struggles to conceal his feelings but he is deeply disturbed at the prospect of killing a child.   Throughout all of his training and hundreds of exercises, the targets had always been adults.  He wonders who they are, why they are marked for death, and who is paying the fee.  But from the start, it has always been clear. You will rarely know that information, nor should you seek to know anything more than what you are told.  When you are given an assignment, you are not afforded the luxury of having an opinion about it.  You achieve your objective anonymously and as cleanly as possible, then leave the scene without a trace.  You perform the task and, if successful, you are paid for it.

The next morning, Tyron awakens before dawn.  His morning duties have been tasked to a younger student. He enjoys a feeling of superiority as he walks across the courtyard knowing he does not have to clean it.  He stops by the cookhouse for his breakfast, then heads out the front gate toward the address Bharat gave him.  

The location of his mission is a fine home with a walled front garden.  He chooses a shady, concealed area across the street from the home from which vantage point he observes the morning routine there.  The front gate is manned by one armed guard.  Delivery men from local vendors come and go.  A gardener carrying his tools arrives early in the morning and leaves near mid-day.  The guard appears to carry out his responsibilities in a casual manner.

Tyron has a partial view through the open gate into the inner area of the garden.  From time to time, he catches glimpses of his targets - the little boy running, laughing, and his mother chasing him playfully.   Later he sees them cuddling in the shade of a fig tree.   The power of his dream memory suddenly consumes him.  He closes his eyes, and for a few golden moments he feels that same love.  

When the moment passes, Tyron’s eyes open and he knows that he is incapable of carrying out his assignment.  He cannot kill this child, nor could he under any circumstances, even if he knew who had ordered it and why.  He is immobilized, despite all of his training designed to dehumanize mission targets.  Now closely observing potential victims in a real-life scenario, it is not possible for him to ignore their humanity.

Confusion and apprehension overwhelm him as he emerges from his hiding spot and crosses the street.  He easily slips past the drowsy gate guard and approaches the woman and her son.  She registers concern at Tyron’s approach, gathering up her infant into her arms.

“Who are you?” she demands.

“I mean you no harm.  In fact, I am here to warn you that your life may be in danger.”

“What?  Why do you say that?”  The woman glances furtively around the garden, her face a mask of horror.

“I was approached by someone who wanted you and your son murdered.   They wouldn’t tell me why but offered to pay me to do it.”

“Who was it?  Why should I trust you?” 

“I’m sorry.  I don’t know anything more.  I understand your doubting me.  Please know that I was sent here to kill you and by warning you instead, I am placing my own life in danger.  I must go now.  I wish you well.”

Tyron walks out of the gate and turns right.  He isn’t sure where he is going, but he knows he cannot return to the school.  His life there is over.  For Bharat failure is not an option.  Disloyalty is unforgiveable.   Tyron has no doubt that his warning to the woman will put a price on his head.

He walks down the cobbled streets past the shops and businesses toward the busy harbor.  Sea birds swoop and call among the swaying masts of ships delivering loads or taking on goods to be traded in faraway places.  Despite his situation, he feels a surprising sense of relief.  

As Tyron walks along the waterfront, he imagines that some of these ships must be looking for new crew members.  He walks up the gangplank of the next ship he sees feeling a sense of excitement and adventure, and something he realizes he has never felt before – freedom.

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