As the men hurried off Napoleon could see the renewed determination in their expressions and nodded with satisfaction.‘Their blood is up. I just hope they can take the wall this time.’ He turned his gaze back towards the enemy’s defences. They were less than half a mile from the nearest enemy guns. ‘We are still within range here. And so are the men.’

‘It would take a lucky shot indeed to hit anyone at this range, sire,’ Lannes replied dismissively. ‘Waste of good powder.’

‘I hope you are right.’

An instant later there was a puff of smoke from an embrasure in the nearest Austrian redoubt and both men traced the faint dark smear of the shot as it curved through the morning air, angling slightly to one side of their position. The ball grounded a hundred yards ahead, kicking up dust and dirt before it landed again another fifty paces further on, and then again before carving a furrow through the calf-length grass and coming to rest a short distance from the front rank of the nearest French battalion.

‘Good conditions for artillery,’ Napoleon mused. ‘Firm ground - the effective range will increase, and the ricochet of the enemy shot is going to cost us dear.’

More Austrian guns opened fire and a shot from one of the heavier pieces grounded just short of one of the French battalions before slicing a deep path through the ranks, felling men like skittles.

Lannes cleared his throat. ‘Sire, it occurs to me that we are also in range of the enemy guns.’

‘True, but as you pointed out the chances of their hitting us are negligible.’

‘Nevertheless, sire, it would be prudent for you to withdraw beyond effective range.’

Napoleon glanced towards the redoubt, noting that the muzzle of one of the guns was foreshortened to a black dot. Abruptly the gun was obscured by a swirl of smoke and a moment later a puff of dirt kicked up just ahead of them.

‘Look out!’ Lannes yelled a warning.

But before Napoleon could react, the ball grounded much closer, and then again right at their feet. Grit and soil sprayed in their faces as Napoleon felt a blow, like a savage kick, slam into his right ankle. The shock of the impact stunned him and he stood rigidly, not daring to look down, as Lannes dusted down his uniform jacket with a chuckle. ‘As I said . . .’

Napoleon felt his ankle give way, and stumbled to the side, thrusting out his arms to break his fall as he went down.

‘Sire!’ Lannes hurried to kneel at his side. ‘You’ve been hit?’

The pain in Napoleon’s leg was agonisingly sharp and he gritted his teeth as he replied. ‘Of course I’ve been hit, you fool.’

‘Where?’ Lannes glanced over him anxiously. ‘I can’t see the wound.’

‘My right leg.’ Napoleon winced. ‘The ankle.’