‘And what if I die necessarily?’ Napoleon shook his head. ‘War is dangerous, Berthier. Would it really be safer for me to stay so far back from the fighting that I could not see the battle? How could I respond in time to the moves of the enemy? I have to go forward, understand?’

Berthier nodded. ‘Very well, sir. But please be careful.’

‘That I can promise with a clear conscience.’ Napoleon grinned. ‘Come on!’

They passed through the Pompey gate and at once Napoleon smelt the thick heavy odour of excrement and decay, a far more pungent and unpleasant stench than even the poorest quarters of Paris had to endure. Just inside the walls they came across the first bodies: two Frenchmen sprawled across the corpse of a well-muscled man in a turban and a flowing tunic. He had four pistols jammed into a wide band of cloth around his waist. In his hand was the scimitar with which he had cut down his two foes. Beside him lay a purse, split open, and a few silver coins still lay on the soiled street where the first wave of French troops had not had time to sweep them all up.

‘One of their Mamelukes, I think.’ Napoleon knelt down beside the body and gently took the blade from the dead man’s hand. The Mamelukes were an elite cast of warriors who were well rewarded by their Turkish masters.The hilt was finely crafted and set with precious stones arranged around a dazzling ruby.

‘Good God,’ muttered Berthier. ‘Is that what I think it is? I’ve never seen such a fine gem.’

Napoleon smiled as he rose and handed him the scimitar. ‘Here. If this is the kind of wealth their soldiers are carrying around then there’ll be rich pickings for France, and for us. Come on.’

They hurried down a narrow, filthy street, following the crackle of musket fire, and soon caught up with one of the attacking columns which had emerged into a large market place. The men had taken cover behind abandoned and upended stalls and carts and were exchanging shots with scores of the enemy defending the walls of a mosque. High up, in the tower, a robed figure shouted encouragement to his brethren, occasionally breaking off to wave his fists at the French troops and scream some kind of abuse at the invaders. Napoleon strode across to the nearest officer, a young captain, and grabbed his arm. ‘What the hell is going on here? Why aren’t you advancing?’

‘Sir, it’s General Kléber. He’s been wounded.’

‘Kléber? Where is he?’

The captain pointed across the market to a group of men huddled in the entrance to a large house.

‘Right.’ Napoleon nodded. ‘Get your men forward, Captain. Tell them to concentrate their fire on that man in the tower. I want him shot down, then you take the mosque. Clear?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Then get on with it.’