The old man rested on a large granite rock and surveyed the scene.

It had been a stiff climb, and he was winded.

Behind him a small cave opened its mouth in the rocky hillside. It was a place to pray and meditate, and he came here as often as he could.

The Apostle John was over ninety and every muscle in his body ached. He wiped his brow and drew a deep breath.

The Mediterranean Sea glittered blue and white on the horizon, and closer, it resembled an emerald, sparkling in the morning sun with a life of its own. Ships plowed the water out on the sea, Roman galleys that carried supplies all over the world, powered by slaves who would survive only a few months in the fetid holds.

Closer to his vantage point, the encampment sprawled below him. They did not need a fence to contain the prisoners for there was no place to flee – only to the sea or inland.

The Romans posted guards along the beach and kept fires burning through the night. They didn’t care if the prisoners escaped inland because Patmos was uninhabited – there was no food, villages, or shelter.