In my first seven years of life I had never been robbed, but then I owned little of any value to anyone else, only the clothes on my back and a small bladed knife in the belt at my waist. My master was a different matter. He was a trader of goods and had many objects of much worth to sell on both sides of the Terek River, that winding border between the Cossack lands to the north and the Chechen tribes below.

Thus it was, those many years ago, while approaching through a shallow valley between two rolling grass hills in the Wild Country south of the river, that we met the horseman. He appeared to have been waiting just for us.

I am Timur of the nomadic Nogai people. It is said that my long ago ancestor was of direct descent from the Great Khan, the one the Round Eyes called Temujin, the one who led our Mongols in their conquest of the known earth. His swift ponies carried the yak-tail standard north as far as the frozen lands where nights are long, and south to the deep blue waters of the Mediterranean and the sweltering jungles of the once great Hindu Kingdom. Our people raided east to the Tien Shan Mountains of China, then turned and pursued the setting sun to white-faced races beyond the edge of the Western Steppes.
At the death of Temujin rose arguments, red power struggles, and old grievances. In time, our people split into the Greater Horde and the Nogai Horde and we continued our wandering ways. But in those days of my childhood, our once vast herds of horses were plundered by both Mountain and Lowland Chechen tribes, plus the bearded Cossacks who slipped south of the Terek River to raid the Wild Country. For me to survive in this decline of our once mighty people, I tied myself to the merchant who became known in this land only as the Armenian, and even I have no knowledge of his real name.

I first saw this Armenian when he came south from the Terek with a string of ponies bearing trade goods to barter in one of the distant Chechen villages. As our paths crossed, he rode wide of our yurts and horse herds traveling west in search of better grazing. In passing, we stared at each other. To me, he seemed uncomfortable on horseback and scarcely adequate to lead such a string of pack animals. His laden packs rode unbalanced and loose. He had evidently allowed his ponies to suck much air into their bellies when he tightened the leather girth to the loads on their backs. At the first sign of serious trouble, he would no doubt lose his entire stock of trade goods, and perhaps his life. I was surprised he had made it this far along from the Turkic lands where he first started. To travel this great distance, he must have been one to whom the gods had granted much luck, a circumstance we Nogai hold in high esteem.

That night, I crept away from my uncle's overcrowded yurt and followed the trail of the Armenian. No one in my uncle's family would miss this one small boy not of direct line blood. I was merely another mouth to feed, just another little boy in quilted pants and jacket with a fur cap on his head, almost indistinguishable from the other round-faced boys except my clothes were more worn and faded.

After a few hours' walk, I came to the Armenian's camp on the high bank of a small creek. Here his ponies, tied to stakes in the ground, had quickly eaten all the available grass in individual circles for as far as their short ropes would allow them. I quietly approached his riding horse, gave it several tufts of long grass I'd pulled, and let the cautious beast smell the back of my hand. The smooth gray hide of his neck shivered at my first touch, his long mane rippling in the moonlight. Soon, I breathed into his damp, quivering nostrils so that he would always know me. Then I untied his rope from the wooden stake in the ground, fashioned the twisted hemp to make a halter, and climbed up on the horse's back. As he slowly munched his way through the Steppes grass which he could now freely reach, I fell asleep on his back. I was at home.

Before the sun rose, I set about to make myself useful, but the sounds of my labors must have awakened the Armenian. He came out of his tent with a start, a stout piece of firewood in his hand.

"Who are you?" he demanded.

I picked up the samovar near the campfire and poured a small cup full of fragrant dark tea. Dregs of loose black leaves swirled against the white porcelain, finally settling to the bottom. I placed the steaming cup before him and stepped back.

"I am called Timur. In the Turkic lands, it means—"

He finished my sentence, "—iron."

I nodded. Only later would I learn that he spoke many languages, a necessary trait if one is to be a successful trader of goods in this land of different tribes from many races.
Seeming to relax now that he found himself confronted only by a small, insignificant boy, the Armenian sat cross-legged on his Persian carpet in front of the tent door. This was a carpet which I had unrolled from one of his packs while the eastern sky was barely showing a pink band of light upon the distant horizon. And, I had spread this rug there upon the earth so he could avoid contact with the early morning dew upon the ground. He ignored this obvious service of comfort I had provided for him and merely sipped from his teacup before inquiring:

"What are you doing here?"

"I am taking care of you."

His lips sputtered tea back into the cup. Dark drops fell onto the expensive Persian weave.

I would have patted him strongly on the back to ease his discomfort of swallowing hot liquid down the wrong part of his throat, but as he had not yet come to realize my true worth to him, I ignored the sudden coughing and went to gather our horses. Words from me would mean nothing; he would have to learn for himself.

By the time I returned with the animals, he had eaten the breakfast of dried fruits and flatbread I'd laid out on a yellow napkin in one corner of the carpet. He saved no food for me, but I had already served myself from his food stocks before he awoke, so felt no hunger. I had learned early how to take care of myself in this ever-changing world where life was fragile if you didn't pay attention to events around you.

For the next two days we traveled together, with him trying to do matters in the way he always had, and me rebalancing the packs before he loaded them onto our animals. Eventually, he came to accept that mine was the better way. Under my care, the pack ponies became stronger and we covered more versts in a day. In time, the Armenian grudgingly acknowledged my tending to his own daily needs much as a manservant would do for him.

I quickly saw he was ignorant of our ways, and could not read the thoughts of our people in the same manner he presumed to read the thoughts of other races by observing their facial expressions. At times when I caught him studying my stolid face, I realized this man truly had no idea how independent I was, nor how close I held my heritage.
In return for my labors, he protested that he would only feed me and provide a place to sleep. After all, as he frequently said, he hadn't asked me to come along.

How little he knew. If need be, I could live off this land abundant with wild game, and as for a place to sleep, I often made my bed on the back of a horse much the same as my warrior ancestors had during times of constant warfare. Truth be told, I went with him to absorb some of the luck the gods were obviously granting to this wandering Armenian, but only I was aware of my reasons.