The synagogue collapsed with a groan, like that of a falling giant. Flames licked up from the broken foundations, as the central tower fell in on itself and fire sprang across to nearby buildings. All about the city, the air was rent with the sound of people screaming and shouting, masonry falling, the tolling of bells in alarm. Teams of people scuttled desperately about the wreckage, pulling bodies from the rubble, directing ambulances and water to quell the flames. Carnage and panic was everywhere, everyone doing what they could to help in the maelstrom of terror.
All except one.
Inquisitor Tacit strode out of the flames of the building into the shadows of the opposite street, his face lean and dark, his eyes like opals. He never looked back. A team of firemen rushed past him, yelping like dogs, arms waving and gesticulating towards the ruined building ablaze.
“Father!” one of them pleaded, reaching out to him and then recoiling instantly when Tacit’s eyes turned to him. The cold glare burnt him like the flaming joists at the foundations of church. He stumbled on with his colleagues, his face racked with horror, as if he had seen the devil with his own eyes whilst Tacit turned into the quiet of the side street.
There was a tavern there, now empty, the patrons having run to aid those Jews still caught inside or injured beneath the falling rubble. Tacit pushed the door open and strode up to the bar, his hard hob nailed boots clacking on the wooden floor boards of the building.
“Father,” stuttered the barman, perplexed by the nearby fire and the size of the man now leaning over him. “What can I do for you?”
“Brandy,” Tacit replied, resting his tired body against the bar. “Brandy. And leave the bottle.”