The historic, unauthorized photograph of President Abraham Lincoln lying in state in his open casket at New York City Hall on April 24, 1865, captured by photographer Jeremiah Gurney Jr. The only known photo of Abraham Lincoln in his coffin. It was lost at one point for over 90 years. In April 1865, Abraham Lincoln‘s funeral train left Washington, D.C., on a three-week journey on its way to Springfield, Illinois. Mary Lincoln had decreed that no photographs were to be taken of his body during the funeral procession. But there was one exception. A New York photographer had secretly been given permission to take photographs by Brig. Gen. E.D. Townsend, who was attending the viewing, and in charge of Lincoln’s funeral train. Just before the doors opened to the public, photographer Jeremiah Gurney Jr. was allowed to come in and set up his equipment to take a daguerreotype photo of the solemn moment as Lincolns body lay in the rotunda of New York’s City Hall, viewed by 120,000. Secretary of War Edwin Stanton found out and ordered all plates and prints destroyed immediately. But even he could not bring himself to do so to the last one. He buried the photo deep in his files and it was lost to history for almost 90 years. In 1952 a 14 year old boy was visiting the Lincoln Home historic site in Springfield, Illinois. He was looking through some old folders when he came across the faded brown photograph, which after careful research, was deemed to be authentic by experts. #archaeohistories

Emperor Diocletian had done the impossible. He had hauled the Roman Empire back from the grave—stabilizing its borders, reining in its chaos, and choking off the civil wars that had turned it into a butcher’s yard. To keep the peace, he devised a radical solution: the Tetrarchy. Four emperors would now rule, not one. Two senior Augusti, two junior Caesars. Power would be shared, not seized. In theory, it was brilliant. In practice, it was dynamite. In AD 305, Diocletian did something no emperor had ever done—he retired. But the moment his iron hand was gone, old jealousies returned. The empire was now in the hands of Constantius Chlorus in the West and Galerius in the East, with their junior Caesars, Flavius Severus and Maximinus Daia. But there was a problem. A glaring one. Constantine—the son of Constantius—had been passed over. That proved a mistake. Constantine was young, charismatic, and a gifted general. He had the loyalty of his father’s troops and the instincts of a lion. When Constantius died suddenly in Britain in July of 306, the legions did what legions had always done: they raised their man on their shields. Constantine was proclaimed emperor by acclamation. He could have declined. He did not. He accepted the mantle with the cool certainty of a man who believed history had reserved a throne for him. He was right. This broke the rules—and enraged another claimant: Maxentius. He was the son of the retired emperor Maximian and believed the purple rightly belonged to him. The Praetorian Guard in Rome backed him. Within months, he had declared himself emperor as well. Severus, the sitting western Augustus, marched to suppress this rebellion—and was captured and murdered. Maxentius expected to take his place. Instead, Galerius handed the western title to an old ally, Licinius. By now, the chessboard was cracking under the weight of its own players. Five emperors were vying for control, and each had an army. Two camps emerged: Constantine and Licinius on one side, Maxentius and Maximinus Daia on the other. Galerius—aging and increasingly irrelevant—tried to broker peace, but when he died of disease in AD 311, the empire once again slid toward open war. Constantine struck first. In AD 312, he led 40,000 men across the Alps and invaded Italy. Maxentius could have waited behind Rome’s thick new walls. Instead, he marched out to meet Constantine in the open. The two armies clashed at the Milvian Bridge. It was here that Constantine, on the eve of battle, claimed to have seen a vision—either in the sky or in a dream. The Christian symbol of the Chi-Rho, gleaming like fire. A voice: In hoc signo vinces (In this sign, conquer.) The next morning, Constantine’s soldiers painted the sacred symbol on their shields. Whether by divine will or superior strategy, they crushed Maxentius’s forces. In the chaos of retreat, Maxentius fell into the Tiber River and drowned, dragged down by his armor and his ambition. With Maxentius gone, the empire was split three ways. Constantine controlled the West. Licinius ruled the Danubian frontier and the Balkans. Maximinus Daia held the East. But alliances were brittle. Maximinus, who had backed Maxentius, was already maneuvering against Constantine and Licinius. In AD 313, the two emperors issued the Edict of Milan—proclaiming religious tolerance across the empire—and sealed their alliance with a marriage: Licinius wed Constantine’s half-sister, Constantia. Maximinus, knowing he could not survive a united front, launched a preemptive strike. It failed. His army was smashed. He fled, but there was nowhere left to run. He poisoned himself and died in exile. Now only two emperors remained. For a while, Constantine and Licinius kept an uneasy peace, dividing the empire between them—West and East. But friction grew. #archaeohistories