The air was as clear and fresh as any Napoleon had ever tasted and he breathed deeply and filled his lungs as he gazed down the length of the Great St Bernard Pass. It was late in the afternoon and the sun was sinking behind the mountains to the west, making the snow-capped peaks appear blue in the watery light that remained. Napoleon gazed back along the narrow track he had ascended. A long line of soldiers, dark against the snow, snaked down into the treeline. Here and there several men struggled to help mules and horses haul small wagons and empty gun carriages up the slope. The barrels of the cannon, the most awkward of burdens to be taken over the pass, had been tied securely into hollowed-out tree trunks, each one harnessed to a hundred men who were tasked with hauling them up the pass, and then gingerly steering them down the far side.

It had been Marmont’s idea, and Napoleon felt pleased that his choice for the Army of Reserve’s artillery commander had been vindicated. So many of the officers who had served with Napoleon since the early days had turned out to be fine commanders, in spite of humble origins in many cases. Men like Masséna, and Desaix. Thought of the latter made Napoleon smile. A day earlier he had had news that Desaix had broken the blockade of Egypt and returned to France. Napoleon had sent for him at once; a man of Desaix’s talent could be vital to the success of the present campaign. That was the real triumph of the revolution, Napoleon thought with a slight nod. A man might rise as high as any on the basis of merit alone, and not because of some accident of birth. That was why France would win, in the end. For what nation could hope to stand against a nation of men free to pursue their ambitions?

For a moment the cares and concerns of leading an army were forgotten as Napoleon marvelled at the view afforded him from the top of the pass. To one side of the track the hospice of St Bernard squatted in the thick snow, and its monks stood at the entrance passing bread, cheese and wine into the hands of the soldiers as they tramped past, wrapped in coats and blankets, hands in gloves or bound with strips of cloth to save them from the cold, and frostbite. Napoleon watched as a company of the Consular Guard stood and ate their rations, stamping their feet and breathing plumes of steamy breath into the gloomy blue twilight.

Even though Napoleon was wrapped in a large fur coat he felt the sting of the icy air, and the perspiration that he had shed in the final climb up to the top of the pass now chilled his skin.

‘God, it’s cold,’ he muttered.

Junot turned to him. ‘Sir?’