[As you will, of course, easily recall, Heraklia, Ideefixe and Aelius have been kidnapped by the dread Arab renegade, Sheik Sheikh Abmir Wareeiem; lying trussed like poultry in the desert, they've been helped by the programmer Bryce (disguised as Proteus, of the famous traveling bear act . . . you don't really want to know more, do you?) A ransom is necessary, and our Pards are debating movable property in hushed whispers...}

Bryce: Well, you'd best bribe them with SOMETHING, and your baby blues won't do the trick. The Sheik's pretty aware of the daily currency fluctuations!

Heraklia: Well - what about those XVI first editions of Lindsius Davius’ works that M Didius left us?!

Bryce: [astonished] What, you mean you’ve got books by that Brit, Lindsius? Blue Jupiter, the Sheik’s just insane about those scrolls – we’ve already knocked off two lending libraries outside of Petra to get the latest! You couldn’t have done better –let me see what I can do! He’s gonna go wild when he hears!

Aelius [helpfully]: I never told me, but I'm also carrying a first edition of Roman Blood by Steven Saylorus. Would that be any help?

Bryce: [blanching] For Jupiter's sake, don't mention a WORD about Saylorus! . . . you know in this ancient world, you're either pro-Lindsius or pro-Saylorus. And the Sheik's been known to amputate on the pro-Saylorus types!

[Bryce promptly vanished inside what appeared to be a rather elegant goatskin and scarlet silk tent flap, guarded by two massive thugs with scimitars as long as Priapus’ – well, never mind.

There was an agonizing pause, but muttered Arabic and the occasional yelp of "FALCO!?" gave hope to the group that things might take a positive turn. Finally the tent flap opened and Bryce emerged, followed by a short, squat, red-bearded Sheikh with a ferocious expression, daggers tucked into every inch of his sash, and a sprig of thyme in his turban. Storming right up to where the party sat, he squatted down in a puff of sand, grinned hugely, stuck out a unwashed paw, and spoke:]

Sheikh Abmur [in the broad accents of western Scotland]: Aye, toots, and g’day to ye! Are ye the lassie with the Falcos? I’m Sheemie Wurmit from Paisley – but ye can call me Abmur. Pleased to make yer acquaintance! Let’s get ye out o’ this heat – I can see, yer no weel!

[And at the sound of collective jaws dropping, we’ll adjourn our tale until the next episode…]

TBC P.S. Any suggestions that the author will grasp any excuse to abuse the plot with images of good looking Semites is plausibly denied.