Chapter 23
‘It’s the abjad!’
The Lions stared at Haydar. Here was the man who measured out his words and his feelings like his powders, in precise little amounts – crowing with delight and jigging on the spot.
‘Shaykh Layth, I said, the Alchemist’s verse – I know what it means! Don’t you know the abjad?’
Silence and puzzlement. Then Sarim spoke, strange rhythmic works like an incantation: ‘Abjad hawwaz ḥuṭṭī kalaman . . . ’
Hattam, still covered in the Mamluk’s blood, glared at him. ‘What evil spell is this? I seek refuge with God from your wizardry!’
Sarim laughed. ‘My dear Hattam, it is no wizardry. The abjad is simply a matter of counting.’ The Lions all looked at Sarim now. ‘What do you think we Arabs did for numbers before we inherited the numerals of the Indians? We used letter
