It's tough to share your feast with a Big Dog, especially one as big as Luke the Physician. It's not as bad as having your birthday fall on Christmas, but there is a similar overshadowing effect. All the usual sources write about Luke, and the lists don't offer a lot of other choices. I tried, for example, to look up Kevoca, but I found there was more written about an identically-named character in an on-line Lord of the Rings role-playing game than there was about the Scottish saint, whose feast may actually be in March anyway. There's Saint Brothen, whose name is both bro-licious and bro-dacious, but nothing else is known about him. There are two Gwens and a Gwenoline, but that's better grist for an angsty alt-rock song than a blog post.
But then there's poor little Saint Justus, on his way to Amiens to ransom a relative. The persecutions are on, but apparently folks with enough money can get a Christian sprung from the prisons before it's feeding time at the arena. Justus is a mere nine years old, but that doesn't prevent the fear-stricken locals from denouncing him as a sorcerer and a Christian when he arrives with his dad. The sorcery charge doesn't stick, but that hardly matters because Christianity is a capital crime at the beginning of the fourth century.
And here's the part I love best. Cephalophore! Little Saint Justus' bloody trunk bends down and picks up his pale little head. The head then begins exhorting the locals -- or at least those who didn't run away screaming or could still hear him over the noise of the others vomiting in revulsion -- to save themselves by accepting baptism. Some do; others accept the event as evidence that he was a sorcerer after all. Faith is like that, I guess.