Divinity, mystery, profit: body theft and missing persons are an awkward start for Londinium’s newest cult.

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“Move Over, Minerva is definitely one of those books one ends up reading late into the night despite having to wake up early the next day.”

Alice Creswell, Indie Author

Laelius Calvus wants to start his own religion. Something grandiose and profitable, without being weighed down by minor details such as which god to worship. The only things standing between him and a temple-funded expenses account are a disappearing corpse, a runaway niece, a rival priest selling dodgy funeral insurance and a father who, gods forbid, wants Calvus to succeed in life.

As a glassblower’s apprentice living on the outskirts of the ancient Roman city of Londinium, Calvus has a choice: leap into a murky world of blind faith and ulterior motives, or risk being revealed as a charlatan and lose the chance for gaining divine riches and a comfortable bed.

Move Over, Minerva is the debut novel in the new Laelius Calvus Mysteries series.

Chapter One

 I’m going to start my own religion.
 I’ve given it a lot of thought. It’s going to have funny hats, routine animal sacrifice, and treasuries. Especially treasuries. Money can’t be burned and eaten, so what else can the priests do but to spend it on the gods’ behalf on useful things, like comfortable beds?
 Oh, and priests named ‘Petronax’ will be banned. I know a priest named ‘Petronax’, and he’s an idiot.
 My sentiment towards Petronax was confirmed as I stood at the open graveside of my neighbour, watching his widow as she stood over the open bier of not-my-neighbour, screeching ‘I want my money back’ into Petronax’s face. I had had my doubts that the late Flavius Eratosthenes would be greatly missed but this wasn’t quite what I had imagined.
 For starters, no-one should have noticed that the body of Eratosthenes was missing at all. When his widow Jovina stopped the proceedings, muttered ‘the lying bastard thinks he can take it with him’, then pulled out a knife and with surprising deftness cut into the shroud to reclaim the one signet ring worth any cash, it was not the slender, olive hand of a clerk with Egyptian heritage that emerged. This was the hand of an older, more muscular Gaul.
 Secondly, all of this should have caused a greater stir among the mourners. Gathered together were Eratosthenes’ twin babes (who were too young to know what was going on as they sat devouring a repast of twigs and stones), Jovina’s twelve-year-old son (from her first, equally-as-missed, husband), a handful of mourners contractually obliged to be there, and myself, who had only attended to avoid the inevitable harassment that I would have received from Jovina had I failed to show up. Aside from Jovina’s reaction, all that this farce had managed to cause was a raised eyebrow or two.
 Three at the most.
 For the moment, Jovina had paused to draw breath and the eyes of the mourners fell to me. I sighed and stepped towards her. It seemed I had lost a vote I didn’t even know was taking place.
 “Perhaps a runner could be sent. Pac, for example…” I said, glancing at her eldest. Pacatus stared back at me with baleful eyes.
 “Piss off, Calvus.” Jovina was not impressed. Thank goodness. I nodded once and turned to leave. “Where are you going?”
 “Pissing off, as instructed.”
 “No, you’re not. We’re all going to sit here until this, this… imbecile finds my husband.”
 Perhaps all of this was to be expected. Eratosthenes could bore even the staunchest of listeners to tears. It was fitting that his funeral should be spent with us all perched on rocks within the cemetery with our eyes glazed over.
 I had thought him an unusual choice of husband for Jovina, until I had realised that it was all the result of a misunderstanding. Being an imperial freedman with a suitably stable desk job in the palace of Britannia’s Proconsul implied a steady income.
 He was not that good at his job. As a slave, I think he had been awarded his freedom just to get rid of him when no buyer could be duped. Even that plan had not gone well – as a freedman, Eratosthenes had fallen under the patronage of the Palace and its officials were obliged to see him secure. He turned down their offers of bucolic bliss, far from the hustle of Londinium’s inner workings, and opted to stay exactly where he was, working the job he loved with the people who did not love him in return.
 He plodded on; they gave him subtle messages to leave by frequently forgetting to include him in the pay run.
 As Petronax floundered, waving his arms at the bier-carriers as they disappeared around the bend and back to town, Jovina flopped down beside me. Her babies were making good their escape, dragging themselves along on their stomachs to disappear between the marble crypts. She didn’t seem to notice so Pacatus dragged his heels after them to round them up. The other mourners feigned interest in the nearby inscriptions and generally avoided eye contact.
 “Why do you use him?” I asked, nodding in the direction Petronax had gone.
 “He’s the only one offering the service,” she replied.
 “The Vejovis and Libitina Funeral Club?”
 “That’s the one.”
 “I’m pretty sure he pockets every spare coin he gets from that.”
 “Oh, I forgot. The rich boy here can afford better.”
 She was probably right. If my time ended prematurely, my father would gleefully pay for a full service. Light the fires himself, probably. However, Eratosthenes and Jovina did not have relatives honing their fire-starters, so they were members of Petronax’s funeral club, the Funeral Club of Vejovis and Libitina. They paid their monthly dues and in return the club would cover their funeral expenses and provide them with occasional dinners with the other members.
 I often wondered what they talked about at their social dinners. What a bleak, regular reminder of their inevitable demise, meeting with those whose only interest in you was to hope that you died first so that they could see the quality of the service.
 In fact, Petronax ran two funeral clubs. The Funeral Club of the Triple Coventina catered for Celtic patrons. It had middling success, but Petronax remained hopeful. This was no doubt the source of the confusion that day, when a member of each had died at the same time. The biers that Petronax had sent to collect the remains had become jumbled somewhere along the way. Someone probably should have noticed that, too.
 “So, the cheap bastard won’t even fork out for cremation?” I asked. Jovina snorted.
 “Nowhere in the constitution does it say how he’s going to dispose of us. Still,” her brow creased as she cast her eye over the open pit, “it’s better than being tossed in the river, I guess.”
 “If they can find him. Not that that has ever mattered, I haven’t seen him in months. The well-toned Augustalis, however—”
 “Oh, piss off, Calvus.”
 “Really?”
 “Yes, I don’t want you here.” I rose to leave. “And on your way home, pick me up some bread. I’ve got mouths to feed, you know.”
 I rolled my eyes and left.