May 26 in History

A car plowed into a crowd gathered on Water Street during Liverpool F.C.'s Premier League trophy parade, injuring 65 people in what authorities described as a deliberate attack. The incident disrupted one of the city's largest public celebrations and intensified debate over security measures at mass outdoor events across the United Kingdom.

Cassius wanted to kill Caesar in Tarsus. Not on the Ides of March. Not in Rome. Here, in this dusty Cilician city where Caesar stopped to gather supplies before marching north to fight Pharnaces. Cicero knew about it—wrote it down, actually—but the plot never happened. Caesar moved on to Pontus, won his lightning-fast campaign in five days, sent his famous three-word dispatch back to Rome. And Cassius? He waited three more years. Sometimes the rehearsal gets recorded but the performance is what everyone remembers.

Germanicus paraded 50,000 captured Germans through Rome's streets, along with their chiefs in chains—tribes who'd annihilated three Roman legions just a decade earlier. The crowd went wild. But here's the thing: he hadn't actually conquered Germany. Most of those tribes still controlled their forests east of the Rhine, and within two years Germanicus would be dead in Syria, probably poisoned. His triumph celebrated what Rome needed to believe, not what he'd won. The Senate loved it anyway. Military theater often matters more than military victory.

The Armenians lost every tactical objective at Avarayr—outnumbered, outflanked, their commander Vardan Mamikonian dead on the field. But here's what's strange: the Persians never tried converting them again. The rebellion's leader became a martyr, sure, but the real victory came thirty years later when the Sassanids quietly signed away their forced Zoroastrianism policy. Sometimes you win by making the other side realize conquest isn't worth the cost. The Armenians kept their faith. The empire kept its province. Both sides claimed victory, and neither was entirely wrong.

King Edmund I wasn't killed in battle or poisoned by rivals. He died breaking up a brawl at a feast in Pucklechurch. The king recognized an outlaw named Leofa among his guests, tried to drag him out personally, and got stabbed for it. He was twenty-five. His sons were too young to rule—one was maybe six, the other four—so his brother Eadred took the throne "temporarily." That temporary arrangement lasted nine years. By the time Eadred died, he'd made sure Edmund's boys inherited a united England. One street fight, three kings.

Six years old, and Otto II got a crown heavier than most men's ambitions. His father didn't wait for him to learn his letters before making him co-ruler of the East Frankish Kingdom in 961, crowned at Aachen where Charlemagne himself had been anointed. The boy's education fell to his grandmother Matilda—not his parents—while he learned kingship before multiplication tables. It worked. He'd rule for nearly three decades, proving that sometimes the apprenticeship matters more than the age. The Romans had their boy emperors thrust into chaos. The Germans trained theirs first.

They slipped out at night—four Franciscan leaders in a boat crossing the Rhône, fleeing the most powerful man in Christendom. William of Ockham had spent three years under house arrest in Avignon while Pope John XXII examined his writings for heresy. The charge? Defending Franciscan poverty against a pope who believed the church should own property. Michael of Cesena, the order's Minister-General, went with him. They reached the Holy Roman Emperor's protection in Pisa. Ockham would write philosophy there for twenty years, never reconciled. Sometimes the simplest solution is running.

The founder of Reformed Protestantism got kicked out of the city he'd later define. Calvin lasted just two years in Geneva before the city council had enough—his rigid moral reforms and constant sermons about sin didn't win friends. Off to Strasbourg he went in 1538, where he married, ran a refugee church, and wrote commentaries that would reshape Protestant theology. The Genevans begged him back three years later. Sometimes exile is exactly what makes you indispensable.

Charles II needed money desperately—Parliament wouldn't give him a penny, and he owed creditors across England. So he signed a treaty with Louis XIV that promised to convert to Catholicism and help France crush the Dutch. In exchange: £225,000 immediately, plus annual payments. The "secret" part? His Protestant subjects would've rioted had they known their king planned to abandon their faith. Only two ministers knew the full terms. Louis got an ally. Charles got his cash. And when parts leaked years later, it poisoned English politics for a generation. Some secrets cost more than they're worth.