He urged his horse into a trot and headed along the track towards Desaix. For the rest of the night and into the first pale light of dawn Napoleon’s anger at the situation Desaix had allowed to flare up smouldered in his breast. Mutiny? So early in the campaign? It was unthinkable, Napoleon fumed. If only these men had one fraction of the endurance and courage of the Army of Italy this would never have happened. He spurred his horse on. As the three men rode across the sands they encountered ever more abandoned equipment and bodies, and finally, to Napoleon’s rage, a gun and limber, with two horses still attached to their traces. Each had been shot through the head. All the while, Napoleon was aware of a small band of Bedouin trailing them some distance off to their right. They made no attempt to close in on the French riders; they were just waiting patiently for a horse to go lame or for one of the men to fall far enough behind to be easily picked off.

As on previous days they stopped at noon to rest and water the horses as sparingly as possible. Then they moved on again. It was not until mid-afternoon that Napoleon finally sighted the main body of the army, camped outside the village of Damanhur, little more than a clutch of squalid hovels gathered around a handful of small wells. Desaix was still a day’s march from the Nile and Napoleon felt his dusty face flush with rage that the army had halted short of its goal. He galloped through the pickets surrounding Damanhur and headed into the centre of the village, noting the soldiers staring listlessly as they leaned against the walls of the mud-brick houses that lined the dirty streets. There was hardly any sign of the local people, just occasional faces peering out from windows and doorways with fearful expressions. In the heart of the village Napoleon found a small market area shaded by several palm trees. He reined in and jumped down from his horse, and strode towards a group of soldiers sitting round a small cooking fire as they fed the remains of a market stall into the flames.

One of the men, a sergeant, looked round and his eyes widened. ‘Christ! It’s Bonaparte . . . On your feet, lads!’

The soldiers rose wearily and shuffled to attention and Napoleon had to force himself not to rage at their slovenly and insolent manner.

‘Where’s General Desaix’s headquarters?’ he snapped.

The sergeant pointed to a side street leading off the square. ‘There’s a small mosque just down there, sir. It’s the big house opposite. Can’t miss it. Most of the officers in the army are there right now.’

‘Really? What’s going on, Sergeant?’

‘They’re debating whether or not to continue the advance. Least that’s the rumour that’s going round, sir.’