Fourteenth of February, 270 AD
Something unidentifiable scurried across the cold floor made of stones as the cell door creaked, and a soft glow spilled into the room, highlighting the diminished form of the man huddled in a corner.
A pitiful sight.
His face was unshaven and blood crusted in spots from the torture. Gone was his usual long white tunic and sandals, replaced by tattered rags meant to steal his dignity. How those who’d imprisoned him had misjudged the strength of the priest named Valentinus. Despite plunging him into darkness, his internal light enabled him to scribble onto the papyrus smuggled in by an indebted Roman soldier.
The soldier Jovian ran to kneel at the priest's feet while anger and sorrow gripped his throat. “Why do they commit such horrors against the holy!”
“Shhh, my son. Do not worry for me. I knew marrying soldiers such as yourself was forbidden by the emperor.”
“But why!? Why does the emperor hate marriage?”
“Sssh. Do not let your voice be heard. Claudius’ reign will not last forever. His heart has turned dark with lust for power and war, and thinks taking a wife makes a soldier weak—steals his focus.”
“I love Rome, my priest, but love it all the more and will fight harder knowing my wife is in Rome. Can’t I make him see?” Jovian’s passion raised his voice again. “I will tell him of my marriage and let him see how much harder I fight!”
“No, you mustn’t! Now is not the time. He will not listen.” The priest scribbled “Remember your Valentine” across the bottom of the last piece of papyrus and handed the stack of letters to Jovian. “Do not weep for me. Please give these letters to my friends and those I married.”
Jovian accepted the letters and held them with an expression of contemplation, trailing a finger along the edges of the folded parchment. Finally, he dared to ask, “What do they say? What does a man such as yourself write in his final hours?”
The priest covered the soldier’s hand with his bony fingers. “I wrote words of hope, love, and to remain committed to Christianity. I want each person to hold the letter against his chest and let the words seep into his heart, imprinting, and then he shall burn the letter. Tell them all these things.”
The soldier sank further into the floor, his heart heavy. “I will.”
The priest’s voice grew stronger, not wanting the soldier to despair. “Now, tell me of Luciana.”
A smile quickly spread across the soldier’s chiseled face. “Oh, my wife is more beautiful than ever, her body swelling with our first child.
“You are more saint than priest, Valentinus, and I thank you for giving me my Luciana before God. That God recognizes our love will heap blessings upon us.”
The two held hands and prayed together—each whispering words to God for the other—before Valentinus urged Jovian to take his leave lest he be discovered.
In the hours that followed, the priest was dragged to Via Flaminia, where he was savagely beaten and beheaded, but he did not despair. For he knew love did not die with him on that day. It would endure and spread, and one day be celebrated by all.
