Napoleon patted him on the shoulder. ‘Berthier, if our enemy was advancing, then of course I would concentrate our strength. But he’s not. He’s in full retreat, and we cannot afford to let him escape us. If Melas does reach Genoa then we’ll be obliged to lay siege to the town and the campaign will drag on for months. So,’ he tapped the map, ‘we’ll make for this village, Marengo, while Desaix blocks his line of retreat. Then we will have our battle.’

Berthier stared at the map. ‘I hope so, sir.’

The next morning dawned clear and bright and Napoleon rose early. He was in high spirits. Patrols had been sent towards the small enemy force covering the bridge across the Bormida river. On the far bank, the reports said, lay the bulk of the enemy’s army. Now that he knew where they were, it only remained to cross the river and fight the battle. If things went true to form, the Austrians would be preparing defensive works and waiting for the enemy to come to them, Napoleon mused, as he leaned over the map. He ate a leisurely breakfast, making notes for the coming battle.

He looked up at the faint sound of a few cannons being fired, over towards the Bormida. The sounds did not increase in intensity and he put it down to a skirmish around the bridgehead between the enemy and General Victor’s men, and turned his attention back to the map. Around him the tents of Watrin’s division stretched out in ordered ranks. After the tiring marches of recent days the men were enjoying their rest and their relaxed chatter and singing drifted across the camp. At length, Napoleon was satisfied that he had worked out the details of his attack and was about to call for Berthier when a staff officer strode up towards his table and saluted.

‘Message from General Victor, sir.’

‘Well?’

‘He asks you to come at once. The enemy is attacking.’

‘I know. I heard the guns earlier. I’m sure that General Victor can contain the enemy’s bridgehead.’

The officer shook his head. ‘General Victor says the entire enemy army is crossing the river.’

Napoleon stared at him for a moment and then laughed. ‘Oh, come now! The man must be exaggerating. The Austrians wouldn’t dare . . . surely.’ A cold feeling of anxiety pricked the base of his spine, and he stood up. ‘Oh, very well, I’ll have a look. Fetch Junot and have our horses readied.’