Ramesses The Great
This is a story built on what we know of Ramesses The Great, details will differ from reality. The complete, true story is lost to time.
He Who Knew Eternity
Chapter One
The Prince of the Nile
The Nile shimmered beneath the morning sun, its waters catching fire in shades of gold and sapphire. Along its banks, papyrus reeds swayed in the breeze, and herons lifted lazily into the sky. From the balconies of the royal palace at Pi-Ramesses, a boy leaned forward, gripping the carved limestone rail with both hands, his eyes wide with wonder.
Ramesses, son of Seti, was no ordinary child. At just eight years old, his presence already commanded attention. His dark hair was braided and oiled, his linen tunic finely woven, and around his neck gleamed a pendant of Horus. Yet it was not wealth that gave him such gravity—it was the gaze of his father, the Pharaoh, who watched him with expectation.
Seti I entered the courtyard with the stride of a lion. Soldiers and servants bowed low, but young Ramesses stood tall, refusing to lower his eyes. Seti smiled faintly, proud of the boy’s spirit.
“Come, my son,” Seti said, resting a heavy hand on his shoulder. “The Nile is Egypt’s blood, but it is a river that must be guarded”
Seti was not one to involve himself in the affairs of his sons, but he had seen something in Ramesses—something that marked him as more than a prince. Perhaps a great General, perhaps something more.
That morning, Seti took the boy to the military grounds. Beneath the sun’s blaze, soldiers sparred with spears and chariots thundered across the sand. The boy’s eyes lit up with awe. He longed to join them, to grasp the bow and ride like the heroes of old.
“Strength is not enough,” Seti told him, his voice stern. “You must be as wise as you are mighty. People must fear you, but they must also love you. Remember this, Ramesses. To be Great is to be more than a man, it is to take the shape o the gods.”
Ramesses swallowed hard, staring at the dust rising from the chariot wheels. To liv elike a god. The words filled him with both fire and dread.
That night, he sat beside his mother, Tuya, in her chambers. She stroked his hair gently, whispering prayers to Hathor for his protection. Unlike Seti’s thunder, her voice was a balm, soft and steady.
“You are born beneath the stars, my son,” she said, her eyes glistening in the lamplight. “Whatever path the gods have chosen, walk it with courage. For Egypt is eternal, and you too will be remembered”
Ramesses lay awake long after she left, staring at the carved ceiling beams. He was just a boy, yet destiny pressed upon him like the weight of stone. He could almost hear the river whispering outside the palace walls, carrying with it the voices of the ancestors: Pharaoh… Pharaoh… Pharaoh.
And though he did not yet know it, that whisper would one day become a roar
Chapter Two
The Training of a Prince
Seasons turned, and the boy who once leaned over the palace rail was no longer a child. His limbs had lengthene and his voice had began to deepen. The desert sun blazed overhead, and the training grounds shimmered with heat. Ramesses stood barefoot in the sand, a wooden spear clutched tightly in his hands. Sweat ran down his brow, but his gaze never wavered from the tall soldier before him.
“Again,” barked the captain of the guard.
Ramesses lunged, thrusting the spear toward his opponent. The soldier sidestepped easily, knocking the boy’s weapon aside with a quick sweep. Ramesses stumbled, sand biting at his feet, but he caught his balance and came at him again, fiercer this time.
The clash of wood against wood rang out across the yard. Servants and guards watched from the shade, murmuring among themselves. The young prince did not fight like a child; he fought like one hungry to prove himself.. When at last the soldier disarmed him, Ramesses dropped to one knee, panting. The captain offered a hand, but the boy shook his head and stood on his own.
“Well done,” came a familiar voice.
Seti I had been watching from the colonnade, arms crossed over his chest. His eyes gleamed with satisfaction.
“You learn quickly, my son,” he said. “But remember—victory is not in the strike. It is in the patience to wait for the right moment. You cannot be ruled by your fury. You must be the master of it.”
Ramesses bowed his head, repeating the lesson silently to himself. Master the fury.
As the years passed, his training deepened. He learned the arts of chariot driving, the bow, and the sword. He could loose arrows while galloping at full speed, splitting papyrus targets as the chariot wheels thundered across the sand. He sparred with seasoned warriors until his arms burned and his legs trembled. And when the soldiers thought to test him with mock battles, he surprised them with clever maneuvers, always seeking not just to fight, but to outthink.
Yet it was not only war he studied. The palace priests taught him the sacred hymns and the secrets of the gods. In the great halls of Karnak, he walked among towering columns, the air thick with incense, as scribes recited the stories of Osiris, Isis, and Horus. Ramesses listened intently,
At night, he pored over scrolls in the flicker of oil lamps, tracing the lines of hieroglyphs with steady fingers. He learned the art of governance—the laws of the land, the cycles of the Nile, the tally of grain, and the tribute owed from Nubia and Canaan. He learned diplomacy too, for Egypt’s enemies were as dangerous with words as with spears. One evening, when the moon rode high above the river, Seti summoned him to the throne hall. The chamber was vast, its walls alive with painted victories. Torches cast long shadows as the Pharaoh’s voice echoed.
“Ramesses,” Seti said, his tone grave. “Your brothers are older, but the gods whisper to me of you. I see in you the strength to endure, the fire to lead, and the will to outlast even death itself. But a crown is a burden heavier than stone. To wear it, you must sacrifice—your freedom, your rest, even those you love.”
The boy’s throat tightened. He longed to answer boldly, but for the first time, words failed him.
Seti stepped down from the throne and placed his hand on his son’s shoulder.
Chapter Three
The Chosen Heir
The court of Seti I was a place of splendor and rivalry. Gold gleamed from the walls, the scent of lotus blossoms mingled with incense, and whispers ran like hidden currents beneath the painted ceilings. Every noble, every priest, every general who entered the great hall carried not only gifts, but ambitions.
For years, those ambitions had rested upon older sons. Princes who knew how to charm the courtiers. Many believed one of them would one day sit upon the throne, and they aligned themselves like reeds bending toward the wind, taking their bets to secure future favor.
Ramesses, younger by years, often lingered at the edges of these gatherings, silent and watchful, overlooked by most. But Seti’s gaze never lingered on anyone else for long. More and more, it turned toward Ramesses.
The years went on and Ramesses turned into a young man, as the Nile swelled with its annual floods. The year of the Inundation had come again. The Nile, swollen with the life-giving flood, spread across the fields in gleaming sheets of water. Farmers watched from the banks, hands raised in thanks to Hapi, the god of the river. In Thebes, preparations stirred for the great procession of the Opet Festival, when Amun of Karnak would travel by barque to Luxor, renewing the bond between gods, land, and king.
The court gathered in splendor. Priests in white linen carried incense and sacred emblems. Soldiers lined the processional way, their bronze helmets flashing beneath the sun. Nobles crowded the avenues in jeweled collars, whispering wagers about the future of Egypt. For the Pharaoh himself would appear, and all would watch with hungry eyes for any sign of him.
Ramesses had walked in these parades before, but always as one among many of Seti’s sons—draped in finery, yes, but still hidden in the long shadow of older brothers, generals, nobles and priests.
When dawn broke, servants entered his chamber bearing garments unlike any he had ever worn. The finest linen, pleated and pure. A broad pectoral gleaming with lapis and gold. And upon his brow, a circlet reserved for the heir of Egypt.
Confusion struck him at first, then a shiver of realization. No words had been spoken. No declaration given. Yet the meaning was clear.
At the head of the procession, Seti I emerged, towering in his golden chariot, the double crown gleaming in the sun. Behind him, the priests carried the sacred barque of Amun, its prow gilded, its deck heavy with offerings. And beside them, in full view of Egypt, walked Ramesses—not hidden among his brothers, but at his father’s side, clothed in the regalia of a crown prince.
The crowd gasped as one. A murmur rippled through the ranks of nobles and generals. Some bowed eagerly, eager to secure their place at the new heir’s side. Others stood stiff, their smiles forced, their envy thinly veiled. But no one could deny what their eyes beheld.
When the procession reached the temple gates, Seti raised his hand for silence. His voice boomed like a lion across the square:
“Behold my son, Ramesses. Chosen of the gods, heir to the throne of Horus. As I live, so he shall live. As I reign, so shall he reign.”
The priests struck drums, trumpets blared, and the people shouted his name until the sandstone walls shook with the sound: “Ramesses! Ramesses! Ramesses!”
And though no crown was yet placed upon his brow, the deed was done. Egypt had seen. Egypt had heard. The boy was heir no longer in whispers, but in the eyes of the world.
That night, Ramesses wandered alone through the palace gardens. The moonlight silvered the lotus ponds, and frogs croaked in the reeds. He sank onto a stone bench, his thoughts churning.
“You are troubled.”
He looked up to find his mother, Tuya, standing in the shadows. She came to him softly, her hand brushing his cheek.
“I should feel joy,” Ramesses whispered. “The gods have chosen me. Father trusts me. But eyes are looming, and doubts growing. Maybe I’m not right for this.”
Tuya sighed, her gaze distant. “Your father does not choose without reason. You have the heart of a king. Do not fear others’ envy. Fear only failing in the duty that lies ahead.”
Ramesses lowered his head. “How can I carry such a burden?
“You will stumble and you will grow,” Tuya said firmly. “As the Nile swells and recedes, as the crops rise from the earth, so too will your strength. Trust the gods, your father—and trust yourself.”
From that day, the court looked upon Ramesses differently. No longer the overlooked younger son, he was now the chosen heir. Generals began to train him more fiercely, priests instructed him with greater solemnity, and scribes followed him with records of his deeds.
Yet the shadows of jealousy never faded. Courtiers smiled in public, but their silence cut sharper than words. And in Ramesses’s heart, a seed of unease took root. For to be Pharaoh was not only to rule Egypt. It was to stand alone, higher than all, yet surrounded by those who longed to see him fall.
Chapter Four
The Coronation of Ramesses
After years of ruling by his father’s side- The palace was hushed. Where once laughter and music had filled its halls, now only the soft wailing of mourners lingered. Pharaoh Seti I, he who chained chaos, had joined the gods. His body, wrapped in fine linen and anointed with oils, was carried through the necropolis of Thebes with priests chanting hymns to Osiris, Lord of the Dead.
Ramesses followed the procession in silence, his face hidden behind a golden mask. The desert wind carried incense and dust alike, blurring the line between mourning and eternity. He felt the sting of grief, but grief was a luxury he could not afford. All eyes were upon him. The boy who had been chosen by the gods must now prove himself a man worthy of the double crown.
Days later, the temples of Karnak roared with life. Priests, generals, nobles, and foreign envoys gathered beneath the towering pylons to witness the coronation. The air shimmered with heat and anticipation.
Ramesses entered, clad in white linen and gold, his skin glistening with sacred oil. Around his brow, the uraeus cobra gleamed, symbol of divine power. The priests of Amun led him to the altar, their chants rising with the pounding of drums.
One by one, the crowns of Egypt were placed upon his head—the Red Crown of Lower Egypt, the White Crown of Upper Egypt, until at last the two were joined in the Double Crown, the Pschent, symbol of a united land.
The High Priest lifted his arms. “Behold! Ramesses, beloved of Amun, son of Ra, chosen of Ptah! He is Pharaoh of the Two Lands, Lord of Eternity, the Living Horus!”
A roar thundered through the temple. Trumpets blared, drums shook the earth, and the people cried out his name: “Ramesses! Ramesses! Ramesses the Great!”
In that moment, Ramesses felt both triumph and terror. The weight of the crown was heavier than stone, heavier even than his father’s hand had ever been. It was the weight of Egypt itself.
After the ceremony, Ramesses ascended the throne in the great hall. Gold light streamed through high windows, bathing the room in radiance. Generals knelt before him, swearing loyalty. Nobles bowed low, their jeweled collars glittering.
He rose to his feet, raising his scepter. “By the will of the gods, I swear to guard Egypt, her people, and her glory. None shall break her borders, none shall defy her majesty. I am Ramesses, the Great House. I am Pharaoh.”
The hall erupted again, but within Ramesses, a storm churned. His father’s shadow loomed large, and already the crown pressed into his brow like a brand. Could he match Seti’s might? Could he carve his name into eternity, or would he fall before he could rise and be forgotten as so many kings before him?
That night, he stood upon the palace balcony, staring at the endless stars above the Nile. The river whispered as it always had, carrying with it the voices of the ancestors.
And Ramesses whispered back, almost a prayer, almost a vow:
“I will not be forgotten. I will be eternal.”
Chapter Five
The Fires of War
The throne was his, but a crown was not enough to silence doubt. The nobles murmured that he was young, untested. The generals whispered that he had not yet faced a true battle. Even the foreign envoys who bent the knee in ceremony sent letters back to their kings: This Pharaoh is but a boy. Egypt is ripe for challenge.
Ramesses heard those whispers as clearly as if they had been spoken in his own hall. And he knew there was only one way to silence them— War.
His first campaign was to Nubia, the land of gold and black granite, where tribes along the southern frontier had begun raiding Egypt’s borders. At dawn, Ramesses led his army from Pi-Ramesses, his chariot gleaming like the sun, horses snorting clouds of dust. Behind him marched battalions of archers, spearmen, and shield-bearers, banners snapping in the desert wind.
The march was grueling. Days stretched beneath a merciless sun, nights froze with desert chill, and the Nile became their lifeline. Ramesses rode at the head, never showing fatigue, his young face set in determination. Soldiers began to whisper—not in doubt, but in awe.
When they reached the Nubian stronghold, Ramesses wasted no time. He ordered the chariots into formation, their wheels biting the earth. Trumpets blared, drums thundered, and the army surged forward.
Ramesses loosed arrows from his chariot, striking with deadly precision even at full gallop. He charged where the fighting was fiercest, his presence blazing like Ra’s own light. Soldiers shouted his name, rallying around him. The Nubians fought fiercely, but under the fury of Egypt’s Pharaoh, they broke and fled.
Victory belonged to Ramesses.
The army returned to Thebes with spoils and prisoners, their banners drenched in triumph. In the temple of Amun, Ramesses offered thanks to the gods, incense curling skyward as priests sang of his glory. Scribes etched his victories into stone, declaring him “Mighty Bull, Beloved of Ma’at, Subduer of Nubia.”
Yet even as Egypt celebrated, Ramesses’s heart was restless. He knew Nubia was but a beginning. Greater foes loomed beyond Egypt’s borders. The Hittites in the north, strong and cunning, watched with calculating eyes.
One evening, Ramesses stood with his generals, maps of the Levant spread before them. Cities and fortresses were marked with ink, trade routes traced like veins.
“Egypt is the heart of the world,” Ramesses said, his voice sharp as a blade. “But a heart cannot beat if the body around it is weak. We will secure Canaan, crush any who defy us, and let the Hittites know Egypt’s strength. They will not test me and live.”
His generals bowed, fire in their eyes.
Ramesses looked beyond the map, toward the stars. He thought of his father, of the gods, of the monuments yet to be built. War was not merely survival. It was the path to immortality.
For if stone could crumble and names be forgotten, then only deeds carved into the memory of nations could make a man immortal.
And Ramesses swore that his deeds would never fade.
Chapter Six
The Battle of Kadesh
The year was still young when the call to war spread across Egypt. Messengers raced through villages and cities, summoning men to the banners. The Hittites had stirred again in the north, and their grip on the city of Kadesh threatened Egypt’s control of Canaan.
Ramesses, now a man in his twenties, would not allow it. He would march forth not only as Pharaoh, but as Egypt’s warlord, the living Horus with bow and chariot.
The army was vast—four great divisions, each named for a god: Amun, Ra, Ptah, and Seth. Tens of thousands of men marched in disciplined lines, bronze weapons gleaming, war chariots rattling like thunder across the plains.
At the head of the Amun division, Ramesses himself rode in his chariot, his armor glittering like the rising sun, the uraeus cobra flaring from his crown. He was no distant ruler sending others to fight—he was a king of war, his presence a fire that drove his soldiers forward.
But as the Egyptian army approached Kadesh, disaster unfolded.
Spies, captured on the road, claimed the Hittite king Muwatalli had retreated far to the north. Ramesses believed them. Confident, he pressed his Amun division forward, leaving the others trailing behind. The city of Kadesh loomed ahead, its walls rising above the Orontes River. The air shimmered with heat.
Then came the storm.
From behind the ridges, hidden by cunning deceit, thousands of Hittite chariots thundered forth. They crashed into the Egyptian ranks, wheels splintering, horses screaming, men thrown into chaos. Ramesses’s camp erupted in panic. Soldiers scattered, tents burned, and the sands filled with blood.
For the first time, Ramesses stood at the edge of ruin.
Yet he did not flee.
Leaping into his chariot, he seized his bow and spurred his horses forward. Alone, or nearly so, he charged into the onslaught. Arrows flew from his hands like lightning, piercing Hittite after Hittite. His chariot darted and weaved, a whirlwind of bronze and fire.
Later, scribes would carve his words into stone: “I was like Montu, god of war. None stood before me. Alone I turned back the foe.”
The Seth division at last arrived, rallying to their Pharaoh’s fury. Together they drove the Hittites back across the river. The field was littered with the wreckage of war—broken chariots, dead men, the cries of the wounded echoing under the Syrian sun.
Kadesh itself remained unconquered, but Ramesses had salvaged glory from disaster. He had faced annihilation, and instead forged legend.
That night, Ramesses stood upon the banks of the Orontes, gazing at the distant fires of the enemy camp. His generals gathered, weary and bloodstained.
“We did not take Kadesh,” one said bitterly.
“No,” Ramesses replied, his voice steady. “But the world will not remember Kadesh as the city we did not take. They will remember the day Egypt’s Pharaoh stood alone against an army and did not fall.”
He looked up at the stars. They glittered coldly, indifferent to the blood spilled below. But Ramesses’s heart burned hotter than ever.
He had tested the edge of mortality—and stepped back.
The gods had spared him, and in his survival, he saw a truth: he was not merely a man. He was Pharaoh. Undeniably.
Chapter Seven
The Treaty of Kings
Years passed after the clash at Kadesh. Egypt and the Hittite Empire bled one another in endless struggle—cities won and lost, fortresses besieged and abandoned, envoys haggling for advantage while soldiers died in the dust.
Ramesses fought tirelessly, leading campaigns north year after year. His chariots thundered across Canaan, his banners rose over captured towns, yet the Hittites always returned. Neither side could claim true victory.
By the twenty-first year of his reign, the futility of endless war weighed upon him. His body bore scars, his armies bore losses, and his empire hungered for peace. Beyond Egypt’s borders, greater storms brewed: the Sea Peoples prowling the Mediterranean, unrest simmering in vassal states.
It was then that an unexpected proposal came—from the very throne of his old enemy.
The tablet was brought into Ramesses’s audience chamber at Pi-Ramesses, written in the cuneiform of the Hittites. The envoy bowed low as it was translated aloud:
Muwatalli is dead. His brother, Hattusili, now rules the Hittites. He seeks peace with the Great King of Egypt, Ramesses, Beloved of Ra. Let there be no war between us, but alliance. Let Egypt and Hatti stand as brothers.
The hall was silent. Generals shifted uneasily, still hungry for conquest. Courtiers whispered of treachery. But Ramesses’s eyes narrowed, calculating.
A peace—if it could be trusted—would free Egypt’s hands. It would secure his borders, protect his people, and allow him to turn his gaze toward building rather than bleeding.
And perhaps, he thought, this too was a path to immortality. Not only through war, but through peace.
Months of negotiation followed. Envoys came and went, bearing gifts of gold, silver, and horses. Terms were argued over every word, every symbol. But at last, agreement was reached.
In the temple of Amun at Karnak, before gods and men, the treaty was read aloud. It promised that neither Egypt nor Hatti would ever invade the other again. It swore mutual defense: if rebels rose or invaders threatened, the two great empires would aid one another.
Two copies were made—one in hieroglyphs for Egypt, one in cuneiform for the Hittites. Both sworn before the gods of their lands.
The hall shook with applause, but more than applause—it shook with relief. Soldiers would no longer march endlessly to the north. Farmers would no longer watch their sons vanish into war. Egypt could breathe again.
That evening, Ramesses stood with his queen, Nefertari, upon the balcony of his palace. The sun bled across the Nile, painting the waters crimson.
“You have done what no Pharaoh before you has,” Nefertari said softly. “You have bound Egypt’s enemies with words, not chains.”
Ramesses smiled faintly. “Words can be broken.”
“Perhaps,” she answered, touching his arm. “But so can spears. A treaty endures in ways conquest does not. This, my lord, may be your greatest victory.”
Ramesses gazed across the river, where temples rose in his honor and cities thrived under his rule. For the first time in years, the future stretched before him not in war, but in possibility.
If Kadesh had nearly destroyed him, this treaty had remade him—not only as a warrior, but as a statesman, a builder, a Pharaoh who would shape eternity not merely with battle, but with peace.
Peace brought new power. With Egypt’s borders secured and tribute flowing from vassal states, Ramesses turned his gaze from war to stone. For in his heart he knew: battles faded, but monuments endured.
“War wins a generation,” he told his architects. “Stone wins eternity.”
The first of his grand projects was a city—Pi-Ramesses, “The House of Ramesses, Great in Victories.” On the rich soils of the Nile Delta, he raised it from his hub in the north to a city worthy o fthe gods. Palaces glittered with painted walls, gardens bloomed with lotus and papyrus, and broad avenues echoed with the clatter of chariots. The city became a jewel of the ancient world, a seat of power that rivaled Thebes itself.
But it was only the beginning.
At Abu Simbel, far to the south, Ramesses commanded that mountains themselves bow to his will. Teams of laborers carved the cliff face into four colossal statues—each a likeness of the Pharaoh, seated in majesty, gazing over the Nile. Their faces were serene, yet terrifying, godlike in scale.
Within the mountain, a temple stretched deep, its halls lined with towering figures of the gods, with Ramesses among them. And twice each year, on the days of his birth and coronation, the sun’s rays pierced the temple, illuminating the statue of Ra, shining upon the Pharaoh as if heaven itself bowed in recognition.
Travelers gasped at the sight. Foreigners bowed in awe. Scribes declared: Here the gods walk among men, and Pharaoh is their equal.
Nor did he build for himself alone. At Thebes, he raised the Ramesseum, his mortuary temple, its walls carved with scenes of Kadesh—not the disaster it nearly was, but the triumph he declared it to be. At Luxor and Karnak, he added pylons and courts so vast they dwarfed even those of his forefathers.
For Nefertari, his beloved queen, he carved a temple beside his own at Abu Simbel. Its façade bore statues of her equal in size to his own—an honor unmatched, before or after. Inside, images of the goddess Hathor bore her likeness, declaring her beauty and divinity eternal.
“My queen,” he told her as the temple neared completion, “when the world forgets kings and kingdoms, your name will shine beside mine in the stone.”
She smiled, her eyes soft, though she knew stone too could crumble. “And when the stone fades, may the gods still remember us.”
From the quarries of Aswan to the sands of Nubia, from Memphis to Heliopolis, Egypt thundered with the sound of chisels and hammers. Tens of thousands labored, carving, painting, hauling stone along the Nile.
To some, Ramesses was a tyrant, demanding toil without end. To others, he was the living god who turned dust into immortality.
But all agreed: no Pharaoh before him, nor after, would leave so vast a mark upon the earth.
One evening, Ramesses stood within the great hall of the Ramesseum. Torches flickered across the carved walls—his victories, his triumphs, his image towering beside the gods.
He raised his hand, touching the cool stone. “This will outlast me,” he whispered. “When my body is dust, when my children are gone, when kingdoms rise and fall, these stones will speak. They will say, Ramesses was here. Ramesses was eternal.”
And in the silence of the temple, it almost seemed the gods answered.
Chapter Eight
The Builder of Eternity
In the endless court of Pharaoh, where voices clamored for favor and power, there was one presence that brought Ramesses peace: Nefertari.
She was not merely beautiful, though poets praised her eyes as stars and her smile as dawn. She was wise, gentle, and unafraid to speak truth, even to a king. In a life where all bowed before him, she alone looked at Ramesses as a man.
At banquets she sat beside him, her laughter softening the weight of politics. On campaigns she rode with him, her presence calming soldiers as surely as a god’s blessing. In council, she listened, and when others fell silent, she asked the questions that lingered in Ramesses’s own heart.
When the burdens of rule pressed hardest, it was to her he turned.
“You are Pharaoh to them,” she once told him, her hand resting lightly on his. “But to me, you are only Ramesses. Do not forget who you are when the crown is gone.”
Her words stayed with him, a compass amid the shifting sands of power.
The years of peace and prosperity were their golden time. Together they watched the Nile flood and recede, the fields blossom with wheat, their children grow strong. They welcomed envoys from foreign lands, accepting gifts of horses and gold, but the greatest treasure Ramesses counted was her smile at his side.
Yet even love as fierce as theirs could not halt the march of time.
Nefertari fell ill in the middle of his reign. No prayer, no offering, no physician could slow her decline. Ramesses, who had faced armies without fear, sat helpless at her bedside, his heart breaking with each labored breath she drew.
“Do not grieve for me,” she whispered, her voice no louder than the rustle of papyrus. “You will endure, my love. Egypt will endure. But promise me this—do not let the weight of eternity steal the man I love.”
He pressed her hand to his lips, but before he could answer, she was gone.
Egypt mourned as though the Nile itself had dried. Priests sang hymns for her soul, nobles tore their garments, and the people whispered her name with reverence: Nefertari, Beloved of the King.
Ramesses buried her in the Valley of the Queens, in a tomb painted with scenes of her journey through life and death. He filled it with treasures, perfumes, and tokens of their life together. But for all the splendor, he felt only emptiness.
He returned often, to sit in silence before her painted image. Alone in the cool chamber, away from generals and courtiers, he would lay his hand on the wall and whisper her name.
He was Pharaoh, lord of Egypt, living god on earth. Yet in those moments, he was only a man mourning his beloved.
And though he would father many more children, though queens and concubines filled his halls, none would ever hold his heart as Nefertari had.
Her loss carved deeper than any chisel in stone.
Chapter Nine
Nefertari, Beloved of the King
Chapter Ten
The Sons of Pharao
The palace at Pi-Ramesses was filled with children. Ramesses fathered them by the dozens—princes trained in war, daughters married into power, lines of heirs stretching further than the eye could see. To many, it seemed Egypt could never lack a Pharaoh so long as Ramesses’s blood flowed.
But time proved cruel.
His eldest son, Amunherkhepeshef, once hailed as the shining heir, was laid in the Valley of the Kings. Ramesses himself walked in solemn silence as priests sealed the tomb. Another son took his place as crown prince. Years passed—and he too died.
Again and again the cycle repeated. Princes born, grown to men, even grown to old men—and still their father lived. Ramesses buried them all.
The Valley of the Kings became not only a resting place for Pharaohs, but for Pharaoh’s sons. Tomb after tomb opened for princes who would never wear the crown. KV5, vast and labyrinthine, filled with chambers for Ramesses’s children, became a monument less to succession than to grief.
In the halls of the palace, whispers rose. Some said the gods had made Ramesses immortal, sparing him from death. Others said it was a curse—that to live so long was to watch one’s own bloodline wither before one’s eyes.
The old king knew the truth: every funeral was a wound that never healed. When Khaemwaset, his wise son who had tended Egypt’s sacred temples, was carried to his tomb, Ramesses wept openly. “I am Pharaoh,” he said through tears, “but I am still a father. And no father should outlive his children.”
Yet Egypt could not wait for grief. Each time a son fell, another was named crown prince. And each time, Ramesses endured, watching heir after heir pass into shadow. Generals grew old in his service. Courtiers who had bowed as young men now leaned on staffs, their hair white as papyrus. But Pharaoh still stood.
In the twilight of his reign, Ramesses looked upon his children’s tombs scattered through the Valley, their names carved into eternity beside his own. He had given them life, but he had taken from them the chance to reign. By living too long, he had become both gift and curse to his dynasty.
Still, he told himself, Egypt had not faltered. His bloodline endured, even if it endured through death.
And as he stood among the tombs of his sons, the air heavy with the silence of stone, Ramesses whispered, “May the gods judge me not by those I buried, but by the kingdom I kept prosperous.”
Chapter Eleven
The God who Walks
Most men in Egypt counted themselves blessed if they reached fifty. Even Pharaohs, with their wealth and physicians, rarely lived beyond sixty. But Ramesses passed seventy. Then eighty. Then ninety. Each sunrise found him still on the throne, still breathing, still ruling.
Children who once saluted him as soldiers grew old and gray, their grandchildren now serving in his armies. Courtiers who had first bowed to him as young men leaned on staffs, bent with age, yet still they bowed.
It seemed as though Ramesses could not die.
Whispers spread across Egypt: Pharaoh is no longer mortal. He is Ra upon earth. Priests proclaimed his longevity as proof of divine favor. Hymns rose in Karnak and Thebes, not merely to Amun or Ptah, but to Ramesses himself, the living Horus, the eternal bull.
In the markets of Pi-Ramesses, mothers lifted their children to glimpse him as he passed in his chariot, their voices hushed with awe: “That is Pharaoh. He has lived since my grandmother was a girl. He will never die.”
Foreign envoys, arriving from distant kingdoms, trembled when they entered his presence. Some had been sent by kings who had once negotiated with Ramesses decades earlier. Now their sons or grandsons knelt before the same man, unchanged but for lines on his face.
“To kneel before him,” one envoy wrote, “is to kneel before time itself.”
Ramesses himself embraced the image. His statues grew ever more colossal, his inscriptions ever more divine. He no longer carved himself merely as Pharaoh, but as Osiris enthroned, Ra shining, a god among men. In temples, he stood shoulder to shoulder with the immortals, his likeness as tall as theirs, his name etched with theirs in stone.
When he appeared in public, the crowds erupted as though the sun itself had descended among them. Trumpets blared, drums thundered, and the people cried: “Life! Prosperity! Health! To Pharaoh, the eternal!”
Yet in the quiet hours of night, when the chants faded and the torches guttered low, Ramesses walked alone in his gardens.
The moon silvered the lotus ponds, frogs croaked in the reeds, and the scent of jasmine hung heavy in the air. He lifted his gaze to the stars, cold and countless, and whispered into the silence:
“Am I a god, or am I merely a man too stubborn to die?”
“They see Ra. I see only an old man who fears the silence that waits when the crowds are gone.”
The reeds rustled with the wind. The Nile flowed on, indifferent to the question.
And Ramesses, who had been crowned as a boy and now ruled as an old man, felt the weight of both divinity and solitude. For to the world he was eternal. But in his own heart, he remained only a man, waiting for the gods to remember him.
The ninety-sixth year of Ramesses’s life dawned with the Nile in flood, its waters glistening like molten gold beneath the rising sun. Egypt thrived—fields heavy with grain, temples overflowing with offerings, cities bustling with life. All bore his mark, his name carved into their stones, his shadow cast over their lives.
Yet Pharaoh himself was fading.
The once-mighty arms that had drawn a war bow at Kadesh trembled when he lifted a cup. The stride that had led armies across deserts was slowed to a shuffle. His teeth were gone, his back bent, his eyes clouded. Courtiers knelt before him as always, but when they rose, he saw the pity in their gaze.
Even gods, it seemed, could wither.
He spent his final years not in war, but in reflection. Surrounded by sons, grandsons, and great-grandsons, he listened as they read the old inscriptions of his victories. The battles, the treaty, the monuments—echoes of a life lived too large for one man.
Sometimes he smiled, hearing the tales. Sometimes he shook his head. “They carve me as a god,” he whispered once, “but it was only a man who stood at Kadesh, alone in his chariot, praying the gods would not abandon him.”
At night, he dreamed of Nefertari, her laughter like wind in the papyrus reeds. He dreamed of his father, Seti, placing a hand on his shoulder. He dreamed of sons long gone, waiting in the Valley beneath the everlasting stars.
When at last the end came, it was quiet. No thunder, no fanfare—only the hush of the palace and the slow breath of an old man slipping into eternity.
The priests mourned. The court wailed. But beyond the palace walls, a strange silence fell across Egypt.
For nearly seven decades, there had been only one Pharaoh. Three generations had lived and died knowing no other master. To the people, Ramesses was not merely their king—he was the world itself, the steady sun that had never set.
Now that sun had vanished.
Mothers clutched their children. Farmers whispered in the fields. Priests redoubled their offerings, fearful that without Pharaoh, the balance of Ma’at itself might falter. Some wept that the end of all things had come—that if Ramesses could die, then perhaps the Nile might cease to flow, the stars to shine, the gods themselves to reign.
The world had not ended. But for Egypt, an age had.
His body was wrapped in linen, anointed with oils, adorned with amulets to guide him in the afterlife. The funeral procession stretched for miles—priests chanting, soldiers marching, nobles bearing gifts of gold and incense.
They carried him to the Valley of the Kings, where tomb KV7 awaited, carved deep into the rock. As the doors were sealed, Egypt wept—for the man, for the god, for the eternity that had seemed unbreakable.
And yet… Ramesses was not gone.
Chapter Twelve
All Reigns End
The Man Who Would Not Die
Ramesses the Great
Centuries passed. Dynasties rose and fell. Foreign kings seized the throne of Egypt, temples crumbled, cities sank beneath drifting sands. Yet still, Ramesses endured.
Travelers from distant lands came upon his monuments, half-buried by time, and marveled at their scale. His colossal statues stared across the desert with unblinking eyes, their lips curved in the faintest of smiles, as if mocking the ages that tried to erase them.
On the walls of temples, his deeds were carved: the chariots at Kadesh, the treaty sworn with kings, the gods embracing him as their equal. Even when the paint faded and the stone cracked, the images remained—testament to a man who had demanded eternity and claimed it.
In the Valley of the Kings, his tomb lay sealed, plundered by thieves yet still whispering his name. Nearby, the vast labyrinth of KV5, resting place of his sons, stretched deep into the rock—a silent reminder of the dynasty he outlived.
Priests long gone had prayed that his ka, his spirit, would flourish forever in the Field of Reeds. But in truth, his spirit lived on not only in the afterlife, but in the memory of mankind.
A thousand years after his reign, scribes still copied his name. Two thousand years later, Greek historians told stories of the great Sesostris, the conqueror they identified with Ramesses. Three thousand years later, scholars unearthed his mummy, his hair still tinged red, his frame towering even in death. Displayed in the Royal Mummies Hall for visitors to meet, thousands of years after his death.
And today, his gaze follows us still—from the sandstone colossi of Abu Simbel, from the towering pylons of Luxor, from the shattered face that inspired poets to write: “Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair.”
Ramesses had sought eternity. And though stone may crumble and names may fade, he achieved what few mortals ever could. His reign became more than memory. It became legend.
For the boy who once lay in his bed, hearing the Nile whisper Pharaoh, Pharaoh, Pharaoh through the walls, had been right all along.
He was Pharaoh.
He was eternal.
Many of the locations, temples and tombs mentioned in this story are still left standing today. From Nefertari’s Tomb to The Karnak Temple and Abu Simbel. The tomb that held his sons, not to mention his own. Even his mummy has been found and is now displayed in the Egyptian Museum.