The Rats and the Snakes

[Port of Theodosius, Constantinople, Byzantine Empire]

Alas, the Port of Theodosius. Once a proud hub for fleets that carried Roman banners to conquer Sicily and beyond, now reduced to a ghost of its former self. How cruelly time has eroded your splendor.

What should have been the empire's lifeline—a bustling center of commerce and naval might—was now a hollow shell, mirroring the decline of Byzantium itself. The trio—John, Pavlos, and Demetrius—stood at the heart of the port, surveying the desolation before them.

The sight that greeted them was more disheartening than any of them had imagined. The workers, who once teemed with energy as they unloaded goods from a forest of ships, now moved like shadows, defeated and listless.

The vibrant hum of trade had been replaced with an air of quiet desperation, thick as the salty breeze that carried the scent of decay.

The docks, which had once borne the weight of countless vessels large and small, now looked frail and neglected.

Their warped wooden planks groaned under the lightest step, eaten away by time and rot. Waves slapped lazily against the crumbling piers, their rhythm less a song of the sea and more a dirge for the empire's fading maritime prowess.

John's gaze drifted to the horizon, where the Column of Constantine loomed faintly in the distance. Once crowned with gilded statues that proclaimed the empire's greatness, the weathered column now stood bare, stripped of its finery like the city itself.

It seemed to mourn the glories of the past, casting a long shadow over a city clinging to fragments of its former grandeur.

From this vantage point, John could see the distant silhouette of Blachernae Palace, his home. But the familiar sight brought him no comfort today.

The view of the harbor, devoid of majestic ships and the vibrant commerce that had once been its lifeblood, struck him like a blow. The colorful fishing boats scattered along the docks looked limp and lifeless, their sails drooping as though in mourning.

The few laborers who remained toiled in silence. Young men and boys, their faces weathered far beyond their years, worked tirelessly to support their families.

Yet even in their weariness, there was a flicker of resilience in their eyes—a stubborn refusal to surrender to despair.

John watched them, his thoughts heavy. Despite the evidence of decay all around him, the spirit of these men—their unyielding determination to endure—reminded him of the resilience of the inner-city residents he had seen earlier.

Both groups bore the brunt of the empire's decline. Yet they pressed on, their quiet resolve serving as a testament to the strength of the human spirit, even in the darkest times.

"This is worse than I ever imagined," John muttered, breaking the silence.

Pavlos, standing beside him, nodded grimly. "Indeed, Your Highness. The state of this harbor is a travesty." His gaze swept over the decrepit docks, his wrinkled brow furrowed in deep thought. "For all the empire's woes, I cannot believe that its primary harbor could fall into such neglect. This reeks not just of misfortune, but of mismanagement."

Demetrius stood slightly apart, his soldier's instincts making him wary. His sharp eyes darted between the laborers and the distant shadows of the warehouses, scanning for anything unusual. Though silent, his presence exuded tension, as though he expected trouble to emerge at any moment.

As if summoned by their discussion, a figure approached them, his hurried steps kicking up small clouds of dust.

"My lords," the plump man began, looking out of breath. "Forgive my disrespectful countenance and manners even though you arrived."

John turned his gaze to the man, taking in his appearance.

He was rotund, his fine robes ill-suited to the setting, and his oiled hair gleamed unnaturally in the sunlight. The trio immediately formed a unified thought: this man radiated corruption.

"I am Eparch Mikhail Vernon," the man introduced himself, straightening with an air of self-importance.

"Demarchos of Constantinople, at your service. I received word of your arrival and came as quickly as I could to personally welcome you."

John's expression remained carefully neutral and dismissive, but he could sense Pavlos and Demetrius bristling at his sides. While they restrained their contempt in deference to John's presence, their disapproval was evident.

"I forgive your tardiness." John shown his indifference.

John then studied the Demarchos closely. There was something slippery about the man—an unease that was poorly concealed behind his polished façade.

"We are here to assess the state of the harbor and its management," John said, his tone even but firm. His gaze didn't waver as it locked onto Vernon. "Care to explain why the docks are hauntingly empty, Demarchos Vernon?"

Vernon shifted uncomfortably, a bead of sweat forming on his temple. "Ah, yes, of course, Your Highness," he stammered.

"The port—like the empire—has faced many challenges in recent years. Trade has diminished, and resources have been scarce. We are doing all we can under these trying circumstances, but…" He gestured vaguely at the desolate harbor. "I dare not to reprieve the plight of the empire further."

'This sly old stick...he's trying to blame the imperial court for this disaster.' John scoffed

"Your best might not be enough, Demarchos," Pavlos scornfully interjected, his voice low and sharp, like the edge of a blade.

"The state of this harbor does not simply reflect an empire in decline. It speaks of negligence—perhaps even deliberate mismanagement."

Vernon's face paled. His eyes darted nervously between Pavlos and John, his forced composure faltering under the advisor's withering glare. His trembling hands betrayed his growing discomfort.

John remained calm, watching the exchange with sharp interest. There was more to this man than met the eye, and the young co-emperor suspected that Pavlos's accusation had struck uncomfortably close to the truth.

"We seek the truth," John said, his voice cutting through the tension like a knife. "If there are issues within the management of this harbor, now is the time to speak. We are here to find solutions, not excuses."

Vernon's forced smile wavered. For a moment, his mask slipped, revealing a flicker of panic in his eyes. He quickly recovered, nodding stiffly.

"Of course, Your Highness," he said, his voice trembling ever so slightly. "I will gladly provide any information you require."

But John could sense the man's reluctance, the subtle unease that lingered in his demeanor. This man is hiding something, John thought, his suspicions solidifying.

Beneath the surface, Vernon's mind raced. This brat… He is not what I expected. He carries himself with the confidence of a seasoned ruler, not the inexperienced co-emperor I took him for.

Inwardly, Vernon seethed. This boy is a problem—a thorn in my side that could unravel everything we've built here. I must warn the 'Duke'. If this imperial brat continues poking around, it could bring everything crashing down.

As John studied the Demarchos's fidgeting figure, a peculiar thought crossed his mind. He likened Vernon to a rat, scurrying about nervously, trying to hide its intentions while scrambling to survive.

But rats, John knew, rarely acted alone. Where there were rats, there were often snakes—hidden forces lurking in the shadows, orchestrating chaos from behind the scenes.

If there are snakes here, this rat will lead me to them, John thought, ideas began to form, the question is, how would he approach this?

He turned to Vernon, his expression unreadable but his tone decisive. "We will speak further, Demarchos," he said. "I expect a full report on the harbor's operations delivered to my office by week's end."

Vernon nodded quickly, bowing deeply to hide the unease flickering across his face. "Of course, Your Highness. You have my word."

As the trio turned to leave, John's thoughts churned. The harbor was worse than he had anticipated, and the Demarchos's evasiveness only deepened his suspicions.

There were secrets buried here—secrets that could hold the key to understanding the empire's decline.

And John was determined to uncover them all.

As Vernon shuffled nervously before him, John couldn't help but picture a rat scurrying to escape the claws of a pursuing cat. The image lingered in his mind, vivid and almost absurd, yet fitting.

In that moment, John realized something profound—something he had never truly grasped until now, standing at the crossroads of power and intrigue. Not all men were fully human in their nature. Some wore human faces but embodied creatures instead: sly, cunning, or outright feral.

John saw himself as the cat in this grim tableau—a predator with sharp senses, patient and calculating, watching and waiting for the perfect moment to strike. Vernon, on the other hand, was the quintessential rat: filthy, furtive, and desperate, skittering from shadow to shadow in search of survival.

But as John reflected further, an unsettling thought clawed at the edges of his mind. What if there was more than just a rat at play? What if somewhere, hidden in the shadows, there lurked a snake? Not just any snake—a serpent with grander ambitions, one that dreamed not of slithering but of soaring.

A snake that dreamed of becoming a dragon.

The possibility chilled him. For a snake that aspired to a dragon's throne was far more dangerous than any rat, for it didn't just deceive—it devoured. And if such a creature truly existed, John knew he would have to be not just the cat but the hunter, the guardian, the ruler who could outwit even the most venomous of adversaries.

For now, though, his prey was the rat in front of him. And John resolved, with quiet certainty, that he would not let it escape so easily.

-----

[Somewhere around the city]

After the nerve-wracking encounter with the young co-emperor and his meddlesome entourage, Vernon wasted no time rushing to the sanctuary of his private abode—hidden far from the bustling port and any prying eyes. His head swirled with anxious thoughts, each one more frantic than the last. Escape. That was the only solution he could see now. Escape from the empire, from Constantinople, and, most importantly, from John—the co-emperor who had proven to be an unpredictable and dangerous variable.

"This feeling… this unease," Vernon muttered to himself, pacing the length of his dimly lit study. "It can't possibly be caused by that imperial brat, can it?"

He stopped in his tracks, gripping the edge of a nearby desk for support. The sheer absurdity of the notion made him grit his teeth. For years, he had been certain that no brilliance would ever again emerge from the decaying ruins of the Byzantine Empire.

The imperial family, with their aloofness and detachment, had long ceased to be a meaningful threat to him or his associates.

But John… John was different.

The decline of the empire's harbors—specifically, the Port of Theodosius—had not been some tragic accident of fate or natural decay.

No, it had been Vernon's own carefully orchestrated work. Piece by piece, year by year, he had siphoned the wealth of the harbor into his own coffers, lining his pockets while leaving the port to crumble into disrepair.

Through strategic bribes and alliances with influential bureaucrats within the imperial court, Vernon had ensured his schemes went unnoticed—or, at the very least, unchallenged.

The emperor himself remained blissfully unaware of the rot festering beyond the palace walls. And any voices that dared to raise concerns about the harbor's condition had been swiftly dealt with—through payouts, veiled threats, or outright silencing.

Everything had gone according to plan.

Until now.

"The brat," Vernon hissed, his voice tinged with disbelief. "He came out in person. He's already poking his nose where it doesn't belong… This is dangerously unexpected."

He sank into a worn chair, rubbing his temples as he tried to make sense of the co-emperor's sudden interference. For years, Vernon's sources within the palace—trusted spies embedded deep in the imperial court—had kept him well-informed about the boy's upbringing.

The reports had been consistent, predictable.

The crown prince is an arrogant brat, they said.

A so-called genius with a streak of childish overconfidence.

No immediate threat.

That was the John Vernon had prepared for: a sheltered, naive, and overly confident boy who would be far too preoccupied with palace politics to concern himself with matters of the harbor. But the figure he had met today was nothing like the reports.

"This is different," Vernon whispered, his voice shaking with a mixture of frustration and fear. "This isn't the child they described to me. This is… something else entirely."

He replayed the meeting in his mind, recalling the calm intensity in John's gaze, the unwavering firmness in his voice, and the way he had commanded the situation without a hint of hesitation. There had been no arrogance, no naivety. Only sharp, calculated purpose.

For the first time in years, Vernon felt truly cornered. This wasn't just a bump in the road; this was a threat—one he hadn't foreseen and one he wasn't prepared to face.

"The brat carries himself like a ruler," Vernon muttered bitterly. "Not a child. Not a pawn. A ruler."

He sat in silence for a long moment, the weight of the situation pressing down on him. The web of lies and corruption he had so carefully constructed over the years suddenly felt fragile—vulnerable to the probing fingers of this unexpected young despot.

Finally, Vernon's hands clenched into fists, his knuckles whitening. He couldn't allow his empire of deceit to crumble, not after all the effort and risk he had poured into it.

"I need to warn the 'Duke'," Vernon muttered, his voice low but filled with urgency.

The thought brought a flicker of resolve back into his eyes. The 'Duke', the true architect of the larger schemes operating in the shadows, would need to know about this development.

"This boy… he's not just an annoyance," Vernon continued, speaking more to himself than anyone else. "He's a thorn—a thorn sharp enough to tear everything apart if we're not careful."

He rose from his chair, pacing once again as his mind raced to devise his next move. The Duke had to be informed. John's unexpected rise had to be countered, quickly and decisively, before the boy could dig too deeply into the harbor's affairs.

Yet even as Vernon plotted his next steps, a gnawing sense of doubt lingered in the back of his mind. How much damage had already been done? How much had John already uncovered in their brief meeting?

The stakes had never felt higher.

And for the first time in years, Vernon felt truly out of his depth.

Mikhail Vernon hailed from humble beginnings, a background that most high-minded aristocrats would have dismissed as insignificant. His family held no influence, no wealth, and no ties to power. They were ordinary people struggling to survive, eking out a meager existence in a city rife with hardship.

For much of his early life, Vernon seemed destined to remain in obscurity. That is, until a fateful opportunity led him to work with the Venetians. It was among their ranks that he discovered the true nature of power: money, connections, and the art of manipulation.

Starting with menial jobs around the Venetian quarters, Vernon learned to curry favor and outmaneuver others. His quick wit and keen sense for exploiting opportunity soon caught the attention of several influential Venetian merchants.

Through tireless effort, Vernon rose from obscurity to become a trusted associate within their circles—a significant achievement for someone of his humble origins.

Years of struggle and shrewd maneuvering followed. His growing reputation as a cunning and capable operator earned him both allies and enemies in the bustling, competitive ecosystem of the Golden Horn. By the time he had cemented his position as one of the most influential figures in the area, his connections with foreign merchants had made him an indispensable intermediary.

Eventually, even the imperial court took notice of him. The empire, ever desperate for competent administrators to stem its decline, offered Vernon a position of prestige—a chance to serve the very institution he had long despised.

At first, he rejected the offer outright. Vernon's disdain for the imperial family ran deep, rooted in his own experiences of poverty and neglect. Growing up, his family had barely been able to keep themselves alive.

The empire's decline and the emperor's failures had done nothing to alleviate their suffering.

The embargoes imposed by the Ottoman Sultan only worsened their plight, leaving him with a bitter hatred for both the imperial bureaucracy and the so-called "rulers" who occupied their gilded palaces and mansions.

To Vernon, serving the empire seemed a fool's errand—a betrayal of the hard-fought independence he had gained through his years of work with the Venetians.

But his refusal changed after a single fateful meeting with a shadowy figure.

This individual was unlike anyone Vernon had encountered before. Their words carried a weight that compelled even someone as cynical as Vernon to listen. Whatever their reasons, this person saw something in him, something useful. And through that encounter, Vernon's life took an unexpected turn.

For reasons he could barely explain, Vernon swore loyalty to this person—this enigmatic benefactor who seemed to see farther than anyone else.

"You must become the empire's dog," the person had told him, their tone calm yet chillingly resolute.

The statement had unsettled Vernon at the time. He, a dog of the empire? The very idea was laughable, an insult to his pride. He had spent his life despising the imperial family, their bureaucracy, and their ineptitude. To serve them willingly was a notion he could barely stomach.

And yet, here he was. Despite his disdain for the empire, he had followed this figure's instructions, integrating himself into the imperial machine. Perhaps it was the person's uncanny charisma, or perhaps it was something deeper—a belief that, through their plans, he could finally bring the empire to its knees and shape it into something new.

Vernon's rise to the position of Demarchos of Constantinople had been anything but conventional. But behind his façade of loyal service, his loyalty was to one person alone: the figure who had plucked him from the Venetian quarters and set him on this path.

For all his schemes and ambitions, Vernon still clung to his resentment of the empire. He did not serve it out of love or patriotism. He served it because his benefactor had willed it so.

Now, however, the carefully constructed façade Vernon had maintained for years was beginning to crumble, far earlier than he had anticipated.

"I have to leave this place... I have to escape to Venice," Vernon muttered to himself, pacing anxiously in his dimly lit quarters. His hands trembled as he ran them through his graying hair, the weight of his decision pressing heavily upon him.

"And I must report the imperial brat to him. This... this I must do. The operation has failed as is."

There was no room for hesitation.

John's unexpected involvement was an unforeseen variable—one that threatened to unravel everything Vernon and his benefactor had worked so hard to construct.

For years, Vernon had operated in the shadows, manipulating the empire's decline to his advantage, ensuring his schemes remained undetected.

But now, with the young co-emperor's sharp gaze fixed upon him, he knew his time in Constantinople was over.

"If I stay," Vernon thought grimly, "I will not only lose everything, but death might be the final nail to my coffin." 

He had to move quickly. The empire's decrepit bureaucracy may be slow and clumsy, but the co-emperor's intents were a dangerous wild card. There was no telling what John might do if he lingered.

He did not fear the imperial court, nor did the emperor himself inspire even the faintest flicker of dread in Mikhail Vernon.

Yet something about John, the so-called imperial brat, unsettled him in a way he couldn't quite articulate. It wasn't the boy's title or station, but the sharpness in his eyes—similar to that of a feline cat—it's threatening gaze struck Vernon's otherwise impenetrable confidence.

Convenient, perhaps, that he now found himself forced to act before this unexpected threat unraveled everything he had carefully constructed.

For years, Vernon had relied on his finely honed instincts and calculative nature to navigate the treacherous waters of the Byzantine bureaucracy.

These traits had served him well, allowing him to sniff out potential threats before they could materialize, to predict the personalities and weaknesses of those he needed to manipulate.

His judgment was razor-sharp, his ability to read people were at best supernatural.

A perfect breed of rat.

That night, as the city's chaos settled into an uneasy hush, Mikhail Vernon, Demarchos of Constantinople, disappeared without a trace. No note was left behind, no explanation given.

It was as if he had been nothing more than a shadow flitting through the sewers of a crumbling empire.

The abruptness of his departure was staggering. So complete was his vanishing act that even the dim-witted bureaucrats of the imperial court—those too blind to notice the rot beneath their noses—could not explain it. Whispers began to spread, each more absurd than the last, but no one truly knew what had become of him.

For John, Vernon's flight was not a triumph but a bitter frustration. The man had been a loose thread in the empire's unraveling tapestry, and now that thread had slipped through his grasp. It would become a memory that festered in John's mind—a regret, a reminder of his inexperience in dealing with terrible adversary.

But that is a story for another time.