A Parable of Kings

"Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair."

In a time long before any sure borders were formed in the sands along the Nile River, there was a young African warrior who owned nothing but his name. He was born in the region of Jinja, on the coast of the Great Lake Victoria. Raised to be a soldier for his tribe, he succumbed to a human nature that gave him an unquenchable thirst for wealth and power. Unhappy with his rural life, he rallied a troop of hunters with promises of riches and glory. Forward they marched up the Nile, razing small villages and taking what they had. The young warrior hoarded any gold or precious gems, using them as tokens to sway the survivors of their sackings to fight for him.
Over the course of fifty days, the army had grew vastly in number, an arsenal of two thousand men, led by a vanguard of archers saddled atop great elephants. They laid siege to villages, and even small cities. Their losses were few, but for every one man dead, five more took up arms in his place. It did not take long before they began upon harsher victories, the further they journeyed up the Nile. Still, as blood shed on both ends of the spear, the young conquerer's army grew.
Half a year had passed and hundreds of miles along the great river were claimed his. His enemies quaked in fear at the mention of his name, of which he had many.
As the year came full, the warlord called himself a king, sacking the great cities on the end of his journey along the coast of the Mediterranean Sea. The Pharaohs who did not kneel to his power and begged to rule under his name were slain in their pride, along with those who did. What used to be a vast network of trade and economic development was now one great city along the Nile, united under one iron fist.
Paranoid that one day the Greeks across the sea would come to take from him what he so zealously fought for, the ruler sat in his ziggurat atop his throne, his army occupying the court of his fortress for three more years. After his delusions were finally sated by peace, the king decided it was time to
return home, to boast to his family of the great honor he had provided himself.
The journey south along the Nile was nearly double the trip north to the Mediterranean. The lands razed by the king and his army remained the way he left them, many blown over with sand and unrecognizable. None came to settle the sands he pillaged, for fear they would be the next to be slaughtered and set ablaze. With the sun beating down on them, the army chewed through what rations they had very quickly, and pestilence slowly began to spread from men drinking the dirtied waters of the river. As his army's numbers dwindled, the king rode alone atop an elephant, the few who did not have the will to die slowly shambled behind their great king, following him blind to their deaths of exhaustion. As his last men died, the conquerer closed his two-year return home, he perished upon his return to his brothers.
In his final moments, he could only think of how his arrogance forced him to look ahead to the bounties of the future, instead of rejuvenating the places and people he scarred on his ravenous quest for glory. Now nothing but bloodstained sand remained, torn apart by his greed.