He laid down his quill and took a deep breath.
He had been there for weeks, and it was easy to lose track
of time. He sat on the floor of his cell among the soiled rushes, closing his
eyes, if not his nose, to the smell. His crime was to have performed marriage
rites for soldiers. He could do that for Christians, as long as the authorities
turned a blind eye, but not for soldiers. Soldiers could not marry.
His had been a two-fold crime: marrying soldiers, and being
a Christian. His faith, like the faith of others, was usually overlooked until
someone in authority needed a bout of intolerance and finger pointing.
His execution was tomorrow, death by beheading, a sentence customary
for Roman citizens. He had been allowed to write a final note, and that’s what
he was doing now. It was not a note to his church, his faithful, nor to his
family. No, his final note was to the young woman, the daughter of his jailer.
She had been dying, consumed with a raging fever, when her father, under the
cover of late darkness and a bribed guard, had walked him, his arms and feet
manacled, to his daughter.
To continue reading, please see my post today at Tweetspeak Poetry.
Illustration:
Traditional paintings of St. Valentine.
1 comment:
Ironically, although this Saint's Feast Day is probably the most globally famous of all, it was dropped from the Church Calendar following the reforms of Vatican II.
February 14 is now the Feast of the 9th century sainted brothers Cyril & Methodius.
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