Synopsis
Visions of a Dream, published by Turtle Shell Publishing, is a story about Alexander the Great from a spiritual perspective.
The backdrop is Alexander’s world conquests, though Visions of a Dream focuses on the spiritual fire that ignites his actions as he learns from the other cultures he comes into contact with, for rather than attempting to assimilate them, he was inclusive of all people, all cultures, and all religions and he lived that belief…a timely message for the divisiveness in the world today. His closest relationships vie for his love but they also provide the steel he needs to be sharpened spiritually and emotionally. Before he conquers the world, he must first conquer his own mind. The first three parts of Visions of a Dream are in Alexander’s point of view to highlight his character, his resilience, his emotional depth, and his PTSD (The ancient Greek historian Herodotus first wrote about the emotional strain of war in his account of the Battle of Marathon over a century before Alexander’s time). The fourth and final part of the book is written in the point of view of one of Alexander’s closest companions, Baphomet (who is fictional and whose name means the absorption of knowledge in ancient times) – she contrasts his detachment even when he doesn’t realize he is emotionally detached and helps him to realize his destiny.
Excerpt
Alexander awoke to Hephaestion, seated on the bed beside him. Slowly and without words, he felt his plush bedding with his hands. His eyebrows twisted with confusion, he looked toward the sheer tent material behind Hephaestion. Panels of dark scarlet and gold complimented the purple.
He pushed off the bed and tried to stand, his sore leg barely tolerable. Staggering nearer to the lavish material, he reached out, running his fingers along a silky gold cord that streamed down beside. “What is all of this?” he asked.
“The lap of Persian luxury,” Hephaestion answered, walking across the carpet to stand beside Alexander.
“This is Darius’ tent?”
“No, this is only an officer’s tent.”
Alexander chuckled. He stepped forth, sliding his bare feet over the lush rug. “Is the dirt of God’s earth not good enough for them?”
“Apparently not.”
He continued to stroke the golden cord, for it was so tender to his skin and his hands were rough from constant work. Then he brushed his fingers over the sheer tent material again. “What is that smell?” he asked. “It is sweet.”
“Cinnamon,” Hephaestion informed, “you smell cinnamon.”
“And there is more…but what?” More so than asking Hephaestion a direct question, Alexander was contemplating to himself. He felt as though he had been thrown into the midst of a dream and only peace of spirit was missing. Alas, peace was everything, but so was investigation. After another silent moment, he noticed the candles burning throughout and inhaled deeply.
“Alexander,” Hephaestion called, beckoning Alexander’s thoughts out of the sublime and into the present. “Leonnatus requests an audience.”
Alexander turned toward the two men, both darkly-toned, though Hephaestion was by far the taller. “Sire,” Leonnatus spoke, “allow me to show you what I have discovered in King Darius’ tent.”
“You have already been through it?”
“No, Sire, but I did hear noise which demanded my attention.”
Alexander was now more confused than he had been since he had awoken. “Lead us on,” he said, ready to follow with Hephaestion by his side.
The morning sun was bright, for the clouds had all but entirely disappeared. Father, be with me, he pleaded in his mind…but why he could not be sure. For some reason, loneliness and vulnerability struck him. Even as countless soldiers cheered him as he passed. But he was not lonely, for he had Hephaestion beside him. He would always have Hephaestion. He could speak by spirit, he could be held by flesh, whenever he wished, with Hephaestion’s love.
As Leonnatus stopped, Alexander peered away from his beloved and turned his head – it was the grandest thing he had ever seen. A sheer purple tent stood before him, larger than any tent he had seen in his life, even his father’s. He touched the silks as he traveled further inside.
Tapestries of the deepest richest colors adorned every cushion, every blanket. Short tables beside the cushions were of the highest polish of wood and decorated with golden rims and designs. And he had not even seen the separate bedrooms yet.
Golden decanters and goblets were still situated upon the tables. Alexander wondered which one Darius himself had drunk from. As he breathed, the scents of roasted meat and spices filled his nostrils. He looked around in an effort to locate the food.
“Darius’ servants were preparing a celebration meal when we arrived last night. He was anticipating victory.”
“As well he would have,” Alexander reasoned. “He has never come to any other battle against us, therefore how could he know that he would never taste victory?”
Leonnatus pushed the curtain aside to enter another room, a room with a golden bath. Alexander smiled widely. “Take Darius’ servants and have them fill the bath with water. I am muddy, and blood is dried on my body and matted in my hair.”
“Hephaestion laughed. “So this,” he said, “is to be a king. Alexander, if only we had known sooner!”
“Shhh…” Alexander whispered. “Silence – I hear something.” He looked around to distinguish from wince the sobbing noises arose.
“That sounds like the cry of women,” Hephaestion said.
Alexander moved as though he were led by an unseen hand. “Over there,” he said, and pointed toward the far side of the tent.
Leonnatus broke in the appointed direction, but Hephaestion remained by Alexander’s side as the two followed at leisure, Alexander plucking a grape from the bath side table.
He passed through sheer curtain after sheer curtain before seeing Leonnatus again, in the room furthest to the back of the tent without any lit candles. It was the sun itself that illuminated the tent through the sheer curtain.
He took a breath upon seeing three grown women and several children. The women were veiled, though their eyes shone with tears – except the woman on the end, who covered her face in her hands as she sobbed.
“Uncover yourself,” Hephaestion told her in Persian. She lowered her hands, slowly, and rather reluctantly. Her dark, almond-shaped eyes gleamed. “Who are you women, and are those your children?”
The old woman, her eyes accentuated by deep brown creases, fell to Hephaestion’s feet and cried, “My King, may I have the body of my son so that I may bury him?” Alexander laughed; the woman raised her head, bewildered. Sheer terror seemed to besiege her face when she realized the mistake she had made.
“Do not be alarmed, woman,” Alexander said. “He is Alexander, too. What I want to know is – who is your son?”
“The Great King,” she answered.
Alexander’s eyebrows lifted in astonishment as his jaw fell. “You are his mother? He has left behind his mother?”
She lowered her head. “We are Persia’s sacrifice.”
“What makes you think that I have killed your son?”
“We heard that you returned with his bow and mantel. He would never have given those up while there was still breath in him.”
Alexander would have laughed at Darius’ impudence, if only this woman had not been so sorrowful. “Your son is not dead, Great Mother, only fled.”
The women sighed in relief. She bowed to Alexander. “My Lord,” she acknowledged. “Darius has abandoned us.”
“No, Great Mother, I am certain your son did as he thought he should, even when I do not understand it.”
But the woman’s tears became unmanageable. “No…”
“Come, Great Mother,” he said tenderly. “No harm will come to you here. I will see to your well-being, and the well-being of those with you.” He embraced her but glanced to the other two, younger women. “And who is this with you?”
“This is my son’s first wife and their servant.”
Alexander peered more intently toward the servant girl, for her dark eyes were stunningly familiar. “What is your servant‘s name?” he questioned.
“Baphomet,” the old woman said, “my grandchildren are also in her charge.”
“Baphomet,” he toyed, walking toward her. “That is a beautiful name…and so familiar.” He pulled her dark veil off…not angrily, but methodically, as though he had won the great prize he expected all along. “Baphomet…” he whispered.
“You told me once that you needed an interpreter, but you do well with the language,” she said with downcast eyes.
“I do need an interpreter,” he said, “an interpreter called Baphomet.”
Trailer
About the Author
Justine Johnston Hemmestad lives in Iowa with her husband and their seven kids (three of them are young adults now). She became interested in Alexander the Great’s story in the mid 1990’s after watching a documentary about him and admiring his persistence and perseverance. In 1990, when she was 19, her car was hit by a city bus in San Diego – she sustained a severe brain injury, was in a coma, paralyzed, and the doctors thought she wouldn’t recover (her story is in Chicken Soup for the Soul: Recovering from Traumatic Brain Injuries). Within a few months she was walking again and moved with her husband to Iowa where they started their family, and Justine began writing to cope with her recovery as well as severe PTSD. She began college part time in the mid-2000’s, as she continued to research and write Visions of a Dream. She has earned her BLS from The University of Iowa, and is now working on a Master’s Degree in Literature through Northern Arizona University. She will be participating in the Iowa City UNESCO City of Literature Book Fair on October 14th of 2017.
