‘Do not doubt my courage, sire. But I am a man of sound judgement too and I question what we are doing here.’ He paused, then shook his head wearily. ‘You should have accepted their offer of peace.’

Napoleon looked at him coldly. ‘It is too late for that. We must do what we can with the tools at hand. Now, order your men to cross the river.’

Ney’s lips compressed and he stared at his Emperor briefly before tugging his reins and spurring his horse over towards the leading formation of Friant’s guardsmen.

Early in the afternoon Napoleon crossed the bridge and re-joined Ney and the Guard as they approached the village of Torcy-le-Grand, nestled in rolling farmland. Ahead of them, dotted across the countryside, rode the cavalry patrols, ever watchful for a sign of the enemy. From the east a distant crackle of small arms carried on the chilly air and Napoleon pointed in the direction of the sound.

‘Have that investigated at once. The enemy is supposed to be in the south.’

‘Yes, sire.’

While Ney sent an order forward to Sebastiani, Napoleon turned his attention to the men of the brigade he was riding alongside. They were soldiers of one of the recently raised units. There was a leavening of veterans, denoted by the chevrons on their sleeves, but most were new recruits, selected from the training camps to join the Imperial Guard directly. The only battle experience they had was the last few weeks of campaigning. A few men raised cheers for the Emperor as his horse trotted by, but most either just glanced at him, or stared at the ground in front of them as they tramped on, bending under the burden of their muskets and backpacks. The strain of forced marches through the cold days and nights of winter was evident in their grim and numbed expressions. These men must endure the hardships of the campaign better than their enemies if they were to win victories and save France, and their Emperor’s throne.

Never had the odds been so heavily weighted against him, Napoleon reflected. And yet he felt the thrill of the conviction that he must somehow win. Sheer force of will had led him to dominate Europe, and he would die rather than bow to lesser men.

The sound of firing increased and Napoleon looked to the east, where a regiment of Sebastiani’s hussars were galloping towards a low ridge in the direction of the guns. Beyond them, silhouetted against the overcast sky, were the vedettes who had fallen back. A twinge of anxiety clenched in the pit of Napoleon’s stomach. There was not supposed to be any threat from the east, according to the intelligence reports. Yet something had caused the cavalry screen to fall back, and Sebastiani to concentrate his cavalry.