How did Ramesses II die — and did his more than 100 children fight for the throne?
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The pharaoh Ramesses II is one of the best known warrior rulers of ancient Egypt, famous for his military victories and great public works. He ruled Egypt for two-thirds of a century (roughly 1279 to 1213 B.C.) during the New Kingdom period, and died when he was around 90 years old, an astonishing age for the time.
But how did Ramesses II die and what happened following the celebrated pharaoh's death?
First, let's start with Ramesses II's ascension to the throne. He became pharaoh after his father Seti I (ruled circa 1294 to 1279 B.C.) died. At the start of his reign, Ramesses II was at war with the Hittites, a kingdom based in Anatolia (modern-day Turkey), and fought a major battle against them, now known as the "Battle of Kadesh", in what is now Syria around 1275 B.C. While Ramesses II claimed victory, modern-day historians tend to believe that neither side won the battle.
Ramesses II made peace with the Hittites around 1258 B.C. and took a Hittite princess as one of his wives. Like other Egyptian pharaohs, he practiced polygamy and had many wives and concubines. Toby Wilkinson, an Egyptologist at the University of Cambridge, estimates in his book "Ramesses the Great: Egypt's King of Kings" (Yale University Press, 2023) that he had around 100 children.
The pharaoh also built a new capital called "Pi-Ramesses" (also known as "Per-Ramesses") in the eastern Nile delta near the modern-day village of Qantir. The "entire city bore the unmistakable footprint of its pharaonic foundation," Wilkinson wrote, noting that it had at least 50 colossal statues of Ramesses II, most of which were built during his lifetime.
When Ramesses II died, he was buried in a tomb in the Valley of the Kings. After this tomb was plundered, his mummy was placed, along with other royal mummies, in a cache at Deir el-Bahari. His mummy is now located in the National Museum of Egyptian Civilization in Cairo.
Analyses of Ramesses II's mummy have provided insights into his cause of death.
Sahar Saleem, a professor of radiology at Cairo University who has studied the mummy of Ramesses II extensively, told Live Science in an email that "Ramesses II was likely crippled by arthritis and walked with a hunched back for several years in later life. He also suffered from severe dental disease, which may have caused chronic pain or infection. However, no definitive cause of death was identified on CT (computed tomography) scans." In all likelihood he died of natural causes, Saleem said.
The fact that Ramesses II lived to around age 90 was, in itself, quite a feat in ancient Egypt. At the time "most people died well before their 40th birthday and he was on the throne for two or three generations," Susanna Thomas, an Egyptologist who works at the Grand Egyptian Museum, told Live Science in an email.
Ramessees II outlived many of his wives and children and it was Merneptah, his 13th-oldest son, who succeeded him as pharaoh. Thomas noted that there is no evidence of any fighting over the throne when Merneptah became pharaoh.
"Twelve of his elder brothers had died before him and frankly he [Merneptah] was just next in line," Thomas said. Merneptah was probably already in his sixties when he became pharaoh and he launched a program of building new palaces and other buildings, Thomas said.
While Merneptah's accession occurred without incident, his successors did face internal strife. "Ramesses II grandson Seti II has to deal with an usurper [named Amenmesse] who seems to have been successful in ruling over Upper Egypt for a couple of years" Henning Franzmeier, a senior research affiliate at the Cyprus Institute who is the field director of excavations at Pi-Ramesses, told Live Science in an email.
Some of Seti II's successors also faced quarrels over the throne. The vast number of children that Ramesses II had complicated questions over succession as his descendants vied for power. There were "hundreds of members of the royal family who might have felt inclined to seek for power," Franzmeier said.
In addition to internal turmoil, Egypt experienced invasions from a group known as the "Sea Peoples." One invasion occurred during Merneptah's reign while another occurred during the reign of Ramesses III (reign circa 1184 to 1153 B.C.).
The internal quarrels over the throne, along with problems dealing with the Sea Peoples invasions, "ultimately led to the decline of royal power in Egypt," Franzmeier said.
Ramesses II was so powerful, he was worshipped in life as a living god. And even after death, his cult continued to some degree.
RELATED STORIES
—Ramesses II's sarcophagus finally identified thanks to overlooked hieroglyphics
—Ancient tomb of Pharaoh Ramesses II official discovered at Saqqara
—Archaeologists find top half of giant Ramesses II statue, completing a century-long puzzle
"Surprisingly his cult is not attested widely after his death — although bits and pieces of evidence do appear," Campbell Price, a curator of Egypt and Sudan at the Manchester Museum, told Live Science in an email.
A sarcophagus mentions a priest devoted to the worship of Ramesses II who lived at the site of Abydos during the Ptolemaic period (circa 304 to 30 B.C.) Price said. This means that some people were still worshipping Ramesses II 1,000 years after he died.
Price noted that pharaohs named themselves "Ramesses" or "Usermaatre" (his throne name) for centuries after Ramesses II's death. Pharaohs also treated items of his with great respect. "Objects from his robbed tomb were clearly prized heirlooms and were incorporated into later royal burials at Tanis [an ancient city], surely with a sense of reverence for their illustrious ancestor," Price said.
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9 hours ago
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How did Ramesses II die — and did his more than 100 children fight for the throne?
When you buy through links on our articles, Future and its syndication partners may earn a commission. The pharaoh Ramesses II is one of the best known warrior rulers of ancient Egypt, famous for his military victories and great public works. He ruled Egypt for two-thirds of a century (roughly 1279 to 1213 B.C.) during the New Kingdom period, and died when he was around 90 years old, an astonishing age for the time. But how did Ramesses II die and what happened following the celebrated pharaoh's death? First, let's start with Ramesses II's ascension to the throne. He became pharaoh after his father Seti I (ruled circa 1294 to 1279 B.C.) died. At the start of his reign, Ramesses II was at war with the Hittites, a kingdom based in Anatolia (modern-day Turkey), and fought a major battle against them, now known as the "Battle of Kadesh", in what is now Syria around 1275 B.C. While Ramesses II claimed victory, modern-day historians tend to believe that neither side won the battle. Ramesses II made peace with the Hittites around 1258 B.C. and took a Hittite princess as one of his wives. Like other Egyptian pharaohs, he practiced polygamy and had many wives and concubines. Toby Wilkinson, an Egyptologist at the University of Cambridge, estimates in his book "Ramesses the Great: Egypt's King of Kings" (Yale University Press, 2023) that he had around 100 children. The pharaoh also built a new capital called "Pi-Ramesses" (also known as "Per-Ramesses") in the eastern Nile delta near the modern-day village of Qantir. The "entire city bore the unmistakable footprint of its pharaonic foundation," Wilkinson wrote, noting that it had at least 50 colossal statues of Ramesses II, most of which were built during his lifetime. When Ramesses II died, he was buried in a tomb in the Valley of the Kings. After this tomb was plundered, his mummy was placed, along with other royal mummies, in a cache at Deir el-Bahari. His mummy is now located in the National Museum of Egyptian Civilization in Cairo. Analyses of Ramesses II's mummy have provided insights into his cause of death. Sahar Saleem, a professor of radiology at Cairo University who has studied the mummy of Ramesses II extensively, told Live Science in an email that "Ramesses II was likely crippled by arthritis and walked with a hunched back for several years in later life. He also suffered from severe dental disease, which may have caused chronic pain or infection. However, no definitive cause of death was identified on CT (computed tomography) scans." In all likelihood he died of natural causes, Saleem said. The fact that Ramesses II lived to around age 90 was, in itself, quite a feat in ancient Egypt. At the time "most people died well before their 40th birthday and he was on the throne for two or three generations," Susanna Thomas, an Egyptologist who works at the Grand Egyptian Museum, told Live Science in an email. Ramessees II outlived many of his wives and children and it was Merneptah, his 13th-oldest son, who succeeded him as pharaoh. Thomas noted that there is no evidence of any fighting over the throne when Merneptah became pharaoh. "Twelve of his elder brothers had died before him and frankly he [Merneptah] was just next in line," Thomas said. Merneptah was probably already in his sixties when he became pharaoh and he launched a program of building new palaces and other buildings, Thomas said. While Merneptah's accession occurred without incident, his successors did face internal strife. "Ramesses II grandson Seti II has to deal with an usurper [named Amenmesse] who seems to have been successful in ruling over Upper Egypt for a couple of years" Henning Franzmeier, a senior research affiliate at the Cyprus Institute who is the field director of excavations at Pi-Ramesses, told Live Science in an email. Some of Seti II's successors also faced quarrels over the throne. The vast number of children that Ramesses II had complicated questions over succession as his descendants vied for power. There were "hundreds of members of the royal family who might have felt inclined to seek for power," Franzmeier said. In addition to internal turmoil, Egypt experienced invasions from a group known as the "Sea Peoples." One invasion occurred during Merneptah's reign while another occurred during the reign of Ramesses III (reign circa 1184 to 1153 B.C.). The internal quarrels over the throne, along with problems dealing with the Sea Peoples invasions, "ultimately led to the decline of royal power in Egypt," Franzmeier said. Ramesses II was so powerful, he was worshipped in life as a living god. And even after death, his cult continued to some degree. RELATED STORIES —Ramesses II's sarcophagus finally identified thanks to overlooked hieroglyphics —Ancient tomb of Pharaoh Ramesses II official discovered at Saqqara —Archaeologists find top half of giant Ramesses II statue, completing a century-long puzzle "Surprisingly his cult is not attested widely after his death — although bits and pieces of evidence do appear," Campbell Price, a curator of Egypt and Sudan at the Manchester Museum, told Live Science in an email. A sarcophagus mentions a priest devoted to the worship of Ramesses II who lived at the site of Abydos during the Ptolemaic period (circa 304 to 30 B.C.) Price said. This means that some people were still worshipping Ramesses II 1,000 years after he died. Price noted that pharaohs named themselves "Ramesses" or "Usermaatre" (his throne name) for centuries after Ramesses II's death. Pharaohs also treated items of his with great respect. "Objects from his robbed tomb were clearly prized heirlooms and were incorporated into later royal burials at Tanis [an ancient city], surely with a sense of reverence for their illustrious ancestor," Price said.
Medscape
12-06-2025
- Medscape
Behind History's Icons III: Van Gogh's Bloody Ear Mystery
Ancient Egyptians believed that mummifying a king's body ensured his ascent among the gods. The preserved corpse — called the Ach (Egyptian for 'shining' or 'spirit') — entered a sarcophagus symbolizing the womb of Nut, the sky goddess. The belief in the enduring power of human remains has recurred throughout history. In early Christianity, Western Europe venerated the relics of saints, including Christ's foreskin and John the Baptist's skull. By the 19th century, European physicians had begun to preserve and study organs from notable individuals. From strands of Muhammad's beard to Adolf Hitler's jaw and Buddha's teeth, this series offers an overview of the most famous human body parts in human history. Part III focuses on Vincent van Gogh's ear. Unexpected Gift In 1889, 22-year-old French intern Félix Rey (1867-1932) received an unusual gift from one of his former patients, a mentally ill painter named Vincent Willem van Gogh (1853-1890), had sent him a painting depicting Rey himself. Rey appreciated his patient's efforts but could not relate to his painting style. He considered the portrait unrealistic. It did not do justice to his natural appearance. So, he gave the painting to his mother. She called it hideous and ridiculous and used it from then on to cover a hole in the family's chicken coop. An art connoisseur soon bought the disgrace at a ridiculous price. By 2016, the painting — now in Moscow's Pushkin State Museum of Fine Arts — was valued at US $50 million (then €45 million), roughly US $66.7 million (€58.6 million) in 2025. Had Rey retained it, his descendants would have been financially secure for generations. However, such mental exercise misunderstands the context in which Rey accepted the gift. He had a good reason to be skeptical of van Gogh's gesture of gratitude, given that it was the news of an even more unusual gift that had brought them together a year earlier. Self-Inflicted Injury On Christmas Eve, 1888, in Arles. As a 21-year-old medical intern most closely equivalent to today's junior doctor, Rey was on duty at Hôtel-Dieu, Paris, despite the holiday when the police brought in a man who had cut off his ear the previous night to present it to an 18-year-old prostitute. The story fascinated and horrified Rey at the same time. However, there was no time to take a medical history — a potentially life-threatening injury had to be treated. He quickly sketched the relevant anatomy, both to guide the procedure and prepare for police questions. With tunnel vision, the wound was cleaned and bandaged. Over the following week, Rey closely observed his patient and was concerned about the risk of major hemorrhage or infection. During this time, he witnessed several of what were described as van Gogh's 'crises.' These episodes reminded him of a condition in which one of his former classmates had studied for his doctoral thesis, masked epilepsy. The symptoms of this condition had been described as early as 1860 by French psychiatrist Bénédict Augustin Morel (1809-1873), whose work formed the basis of Rey's colleague's dissertation: 'Under the term 'masked epilepsy,' I described a form of epilepsy not marked by typical seizures — neither minor nor major — but instead by the accompanying or preceding symptoms of epileptic attacks: Alternating periods of excitement and depression; manifestations of sudden anger without sufficient cause and for the most trivial reasons; a usually highly irritable disposition; amnesia typical of epilepsy; and dangerous acts committed during momentary or transient fits of anger. Some people with epilepsy of this type have even experienced genuine auditory and visual hallucinations.' Rey believed he observed all these symptoms during van Gogh's case. For the first time, he diagnosed the artist with epilepsy, finally giving a name to his suffering. Van Gogh would later express deep gratitude for Rey's diagnosis and care in letters to his brother and patron, Theo van Gogh (1857-1891): '[Rey] is brave, hardworking, and always helping people,' he wrote. Before presenting one of his paintings to Rey, van Gogh asked Theo to send the doctor a copy of 'The Anatomy Lesson of Dr Tulp' by Rembrandt van Rijn (1606-1669). Clinical Viewpoint However, for Rey, van Gogh remained only one among many patients. He interpreted van Gogh's intense emotions less as expressions of personal feelings and more as clinical symptoms. The mystery surrounding the events of Christmas Eve in 1888 reinforced this perspective. On December 30, 1888, Rey wrote: 'When I tried to get [van Gogh] to talk about the motive that drove him to cut off his ear, he replied that it was a purely personal matter.' Centuries later, researchers found evidence that van Gogh's silence might not have served only to protect himself. Lifelong Guilt Historians now generally agree that the incident on Christmas Eve, 1888, followed a heated argument between van Gogh and his roommate Eugène-Henri-Paul Gauguin (1848-1903). That September, van Gogh had moved into a house in Arles with the goal of establishing a shared workspace for modern artists — a dream he called 'Atelier des Suds.' Although he invited several artists, only Gauguin accepted, on the condition that Theo fund his travel and a monthly stipend. Vincent agreed to share both Theo's allowance of 150 francs and his home with Gauguin. However, their differences quickly became evident. Gauguin, pragmatic and strategic, saw the partnership as a potential source of income. For van Gogh, this was a way to pursue an artistic ideal and prove himself in a competitive art world. Shortly before Gauguin's arrival, van Gogh painted nonstop for days, mostly sunflowers. He wanted to express his joy at the approaching meeting and impress his rival as he entered. Conversations about money were a greater burden on van Gogh than average, as he always felt indebted to his brother Theo, who was 4 years younger than him and supported him despite his lack of success. In a letter to Vincent soon after Gauguin arrived, Theo addressed his brother's worries: 'I am very pleased that Gauguin is with you...[...] Now, in your letter, I see that you are ill and worried a lot. I must tell you something, once and for all. [...] You speak of the money you owe and want to return to me. I do not know that. What I want you to achieve is that you should never have to worry. I am forced to work for money.' Artistic Differences The argument between Gauguin and van Gogh on the evening of December 23, 1888, was shaped by the strained dynamics among the three men. Gauguin was increasingly frustrated by the lack of success at the Southern studio, while Theo van Gogh had recently fallen in love with Johanna Gezina Bonger (1862-1925), sister of family friend and art dealer Andries Bonger (1861-1936). Vincent van Gogh feared that both Gauguin and Theo might soon abandon him. According to newspaper reports, van Gogh lost an ear around 11:30 PM that night. About 15 years later, Gauguin claimed that van Gogh had assaulted him several times during their collaboration. On the night before the infamous incident, Gauguin said that he stepped out of the studio for some air and was chased by van Gogh, who allegedly attacked him with a razor. For unknown reasons, van Gogh changed his mind and cut off his ears. Historical Debate and Brothel Mystery What is historically verified is that Gauguin left Arles abruptly on the night of December 23, 1888, and never returned to van Gogh. Records also show that during his first day in the hospital, van Gogh repeatedly asked about Gauguin's whereabouts. Gauguin had earlier instructed the police to politely turn van Gogh away if he came looking for him. Art historian Martin Bailey suggested a different version of events: That Gauguin was provoked by van Gogh and cut off his ear with a sword. To avoid prosecution, Gauguin allegedly spread false claims and fled the city. Another mystery remains — why van Gogh took his severed ear to a brothel. He reportedly gave it to his favorite prostitute, Rachel, telling her to take good care of it. She fainted on the spot. It is now known that Rachel's real name was Gabrielle Berlatier. She was 18 years old at the time, heavily in debt due to medical expenses, and worked for years as a cleaner at the Café de la Gare, a place often visited by van Gogh. Some biographers believe that after mutilating himself, van Gogh returned to his studio, where he began to hear voices. Possibly following their commands, he took his ear to the brothel and gave it to Gabrielle. The Van Gogh Museum in Amsterdam supports Gauguin's version of the events of December 23, 1888. Bailey's theory that van Gogh lost his ear due to Gauguin's sword is considered highly controversial. Another debated theory appears in a book by art historian Bernadette Murphy. Based on conversations with Berlatier's descendants, she concluded that Gabrielle worked only as a janitor at the brothel. It was confirmed that Berlatier had suffered from rabies, which left her with severe scarring. Murphy speculates that van Gogh, moved by compassion, gave her his own ear as an offering or gesture of empathy. Whether the gift consisted of just the earlobe or the entire ear remained uncertain until 2016. Resurfaced drawings by Rey documenting the mutilation show that the entire ear was missing. Art critic Sidney Geist speculates that Jo Bonger may have spread conflicting narratives after her marriage to Theo van Gogh in order to improve the family image. Dual Realities The life of one of history's most celebrated artists was so complex and layered that it blurs the line between illness and health, madness and genius — simply different perspectives on the same truth. Read the previous parts of the series. • Part II: Behind History's Icons II: Hitler's Jaw and Cold War Secrets. • Part I: Behind History's Icons: Napoleon and His Notorious Anatomy.
Washington Post
05-06-2025
- Washington Post
Returning to Syria to reckon with the ghosts of my father's past
In an Assad torture prison, I saw my father's poem still on the wall. As my father watched the news, his breath caught. A video of the inside of a prison cell was on the television. Tears streamed down his face. On one of the walls he could make out a poem, one he had written with his own hands. He watched as the Assad regime, which had imprisoned him in the notorious Palestine Branch, collapsed; watched as thousands fled the dungeons where Syrians had been starved, tortured, killed. These were memories I longed to forget: the days without my father, the stories of what he endured. But now, as a photographer on assignment in Syria, I had no choice but to confront them. Story continues below advertisement Advertisement The return I never imagined I'd return to Syria — especially not after my family and I left in 2004, and certainly not after the civil war. What began in 2011 as peaceful demonstrations — part of a broader wave of uprisings across the Middle East — was met with unsparing brutality by the Assad regime. The scars of its aftermath were everywhere. Crossing into Syria from Turkey, I felt disoriented. As I drove through the scorched countryside toward Aleppo — the first major city to fall in the final days of Bashar al-Assad's regime — we passed through towns that looked suspended in ruin. New revolutionary flags fluttered above the crumbling walls. Posters of Assad and his father, Hafez, had been torn down by those they had oppressed. Tanks and military uniforms were scattered along the road, evidence of a regime that had fled in haste. We drove past Aleppo, then Hama, where I remembered taking youth group trips to the old city. Story continues below advertisement Advertisement As we neared the capital, we stopped at Mezzeh military airport, once a tightly guarded area. During Assad's reign, approaching it had been unthinkable. Now, I walked freely through the wreckage there: destroyed helicopters, twisted steel, shattered cockpits — all reduced to rubble by Israeli airstrikes in the chaotic hours after the regime's collapse. Damascus, though, felt frozen in an earlier time: the narrow alleyways, the ancient stone, the scent of jasmine in the air. Here, I had walked as a boy, laughed with friends, built a thousand memories. But there were also pangs at what lay ahead — I knew had to see the Palestine Branch with my own eyes. The prison I found myself standing alone in a dark corridor. I walked through the cells, each more haunting than the last. The stench was suffocating. On one wall, a man had etched: 'I wish the reality was a dream, and the dream was a reality.' That man was my father. I had found his cell. More than two decades had passed, but his words remained — a haunting reminder of what he had endured. Story continues below advertisement Advertisement The Palestine Branch was one of the most feared security centers in Syria, infamous for its brutal interrogations, arbitrary detentions and systematic torture. For decades, it stood as a symbol of repression. My father was imprisoned there for seven months in 2000, at a time when Syria was gripped by paranoia and deep mistrust. We had come to Syria as refugees from Iraq, where my father had served in the military, which was mandatory during Saddam Hussein's rule. That was enough for the Assad regime to be suspicious. My father spent the first few months in Cell No. 4, a space meant for about three people. He recalled being there with 11 others. Later, he was moved to Cell No. 8, where he spent the bulk of his detention and endured severe torture. Living in Damascus After my father's release from prison, we settled in a neighborhood called Dwela, a modest working-class suburb of Damascus. I started sweeping up hair clippings and making tea at a barbershop nearby. Later, I worked in the basement of our building, where the landlord — a man named Abu John — ran a tailoring workshop. It was in that neighborhood that I experienced my first protest. The mass uprisings of 2011 were still years away, but you could already feel the growing anger. The government had announced plans to demolish homes in our area to make way for a highway and a bridge. One afternoon, we gathered in the street, chanting against the demolition. Riot police soon arrived, and before we knew it, we were surrounded by tear gas. Story continues below advertisement Advertisement When I returned to the neighborhood this year, the open fields where we once played were gone, buried beneath layers of concrete and makeshift buildings. Trash spilled into alleyways. After decades of war, residents' faces were etched with grief and exhaustion. The monastery One of the places I was most eager to revisit was the monastery where I had spent a significant part of my childhood — St. Ephraim, nestled in the village of Maarat Sednaya, just outside Damascus. We had lived in the capital for nearly a year when the government intensified its crackdown on undocumented refugees like us. Our Orthodox church stepped in, offering us shelter in the monastery. We spent about four years there. My parents helped with the cooking, and I worked in the fields alongside a monk named Hanna. Together, we tended to nearly a thousand olive trees that covered the hillside. Returning after two decades, I felt time had paused. Story continues below advertisement Advertisement I wandered among the olive trees that I had once watered, whose fruit I had once harvested and cleaned. I ate meals with the monks, joined them for morning and evening prayers, walked among the ancient books, and stood once again inside the small room where I had spent years of my life. A few miles away, across the mountain, a new monastery had been built. The Holy Cross Monastery reminded me of how the place once felt: sacred and untouched by the chaos below. When I visited, I was stunned to find Monk Hanna there. It was a bittersweet reunion. He barely remembered me. After my family left, hundreds of other Iraqi refugees sought shelter at the monastery. To him, I was one of many — a fading memory buried in decades of faces and names. When I showed him a photo of the two of us in the olive fields, something flickered, a faint recognition. I held on to that moment. I didn't need more. The departure In 2004, I sat in the departure hall of Damascus airport. We were leaving the home we had known for years. I didn't know if I'd return, but I still remember my heart pounding with excitement for what might come next. Two decades later, walking through the same halls, I was overwhelmed by a flood of memories — of uncertainty, of longing, of a younger version of myself who didn't yet know how long the journey ahead would be. As our plane lifted off, I looked down at the landscape of Syria — the cities and towns, the valleys and ridges, the scars of war and the quiet strength still holding the country together. I tried to stay in the moment, to reflect on everything I had seen over the past few months: the fall of the regime, the devastation, the resistance, the resilience. I thought of the people I was leaving behind — the shopkeepers, the mothers, the children, the former detainees, the elderly survivors who held their stories like heirlooms. They had endured so much under the iron grip of the Assad regime. Story continues below advertisement Advertisement I thought, too, about how rare it is for refugees to return. Most never do. But I had been blessed twice: once to return to my homeland, Iraq, and now to my second home, Syria.
