‘They will be hanged from the walls of the citadel. I have to be sure that the Italians know what will happen to those who rebel against us.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Lannes nodded. ‘I’ll see to it.’

‘Off you go then. Have the men load their weapons, but none are to be cocked. I’ll flog any man who fires before the order is given. Understand?’

‘Yes, sir.’ Lannes rose to a crouch and hurried off between the trees, leaving Napoleon to watch the town. He waited a while longer, but there was still no sign that the alarm had been raised. Then he crept back a short distance and returned to his men.

A few minutes later Napoleon glanced to either side at the men waiting in the shadows, muskets poised at the advance, then nodded to Colonel Lannes. The big Gascon drew his sword and filled his lungs before bellowing out the order.

‘Grenadiers! . . . Forward!’

The uneven blue line rustled through the undergrowth, twigs snapping and cracking beneath their boots as they emerged from the gloom of the wood and trotted across the open ground towards Pavia. Napoleon took up position behind the centre company and hurried forward with them, his heart pounding with excitement. The men at the gate saw them almost at once and jumped up from their bench, snatching at their weapons. One turned to shout out a warning and then, realising the need for a more urgent call to arms, raised his musket into the air and fired.The shot sounded dull and flat as it carried across the fields, but it was enough to alert the defenders to the danger, and Napoleon knew there was no further need to keep his men quiet. His sword rasped from its scabbard and he thrust it forward towards the town.

‘Charge!’ he shouted. ‘Charge them!’

The officers and sergeants took up the call until the whole force surged towards the flimsy defences in a great roar of battle cries. The first shots from the defenders stabbed out from the barricades, but the grenadiers surged on heedlessly. Only one of the men on watch stood his ground, bayonet lowered and legs braced as he glared at the Frenchmen. The others simply turned and ran, fleeing back down the street into the town. Their comrade parried aside the first attacker and slammed his butt into the grenadier’s face, and then he was knocked to the ground and the point of a bayonet punched into his chest. The Frenchman tore the blade free and ran on, leaving his victim squirming on the ground, staring wide-eyed at the blood pumping from his wound in a great hot rush of crimson.