Marshal Soult came riding up to Napoleon with a gleeful expression on his face as he pointed out the spectacle.

‘We have beaten them, sire! You have won a famous victory.’

‘Not quite yet,’ Napoleon replied in a grim tone, his eyes on the fleeing army. ‘We must make their defeat more crushing still, if we are to convince them to come to terms and end the war.’ He was silent for a moment before he turned to Soult. ‘Order your guns to open fire on those men.’

Soult stared at his Emperor for a moment and then responded quietly, ‘Sire, they are beaten. They can do us no harm.’

‘Not today. Not tomorrow, perhaps. But they will re-form soon enough, ready to face us again.We must remove that threat, Soult. Now carry out your orders, at once.’

Soult’s lips tightened into a thin line as he saluted and spurred his horse away from the Emperor towards the nearest of his batteries, which had ceased fire as the French infantry closed with any Austrian units that still offered resistance. As soon as the order was given Napoleon watched Soult move on to the next battery. Round shot howled over the heads of the Austrians streaming away from the battlefield. Thousands were slithering across the frozen lakes as the heavy iron balls fell around them, shattering the ice and pitching men, horses, gun carriages and cannon into the freezing water beneath. Many were carried under by the weight of their uniform and equipment, but the strongest flailed for purchase on the unstable chunks of ice, struggling for a while before the cold sapped their energy and they slid beneath the dark surface of the water to join their comrades. Napoleon watched in silence as his enemies drowned in their hundreds. It was a sickening sight, and he was tempted to order the guns to cease fire, but he reminded himself of the brutal necessity of breaking the enemy’s will to continue the fight. The more Austrians who perished in this battle the greater the chance of peace.

As the late afternoon sun angled down across the battlefield the guns and musket fire finally died away, and the quiet and stillness were strangely unsettling after the din of long hours of fighting. In the cool blue haze of a winter dusk Napoleon surveyed a landscape of bodies and wrecked guns and wagons. Smoke still swirled into the sky from buildings that had been set on fire during the fighting along the Goldbach stream. Most of the soldiers of the Grand Army sat on the ground, or leaned on their muskets as they looked on the devastation around them. Already the more opportunistic were walking amongst the heaps of enemy corpses looting the bodies of the dead, and finishing off any of the wounded who tried to resist their predations. Elsewhere thousands of Austrian prisoners were herded together under the watchful eyes of a screen of guards.

Napoleon bowed his head in a brief greeting as Soult rode up to him. ‘Congratulations, sire. A famous victory.’

‘It will be,’ Napoleon agreed. ‘Once Fouché applies a little pressure to the newspapers back in France.’

Soult chuckled at what he thought to be his Emperor’s self-deprecation. ‘A great victory by any measure, sire.’

‘We’ll know the measure soon enough.’ Napoleon gestured to the bloodied ground of the battlefield. ‘Have your men do a body count, then you send in your report to headquarters. I’m returning there now.’

‘Yes, sire.’

Napoleon could see that his sober tone had deflated Soult’s moment of triumph and he paused a moment before riding away. ‘You and your men were as gallant as any in the field today. Let them know that. And when I next have to call on them, I’ll be sure to grant them another triple issue of spirits.’

Soult laughed. ‘Thank you, sire. I will let them know.’

Napoleon spurred his horse into a gallop and crossed the Heights back to the village of Pratzen as darkness began to close in over the battlefield, hiding its horrors until the morning.The gloom was pricked with the fires being lit by the men of the Grand Army before they settled to sleep, exhausted by the day’s fighting and the fear and tension that had knotted their stomachs. There were a handful of the veterans of the Old Guard on duty around the army’s headquarters and they offered a cheer as the Emperor dismounted and entered the church. Inside, Napoleon found Berthier sitting at a trestle table making notes from the reports that had started to come in from all quarters of the battlefield.The chief of staff rose quickly to his feet and bowed.

‘Congratulations, sire.’

Napoleon waved aside any further words and cut in curtly, ‘What news from the left wing?’

‘Lannes and Murat have forced the Russians back. They are retreating towards Olmutz.’

‘Is Murat pursuing them?’

Berthier shook his head. ‘Marshal Murat reports that his cavalry are too weary to mount a pursuit, sire. Nearly all his force was committed today. His horses are blown.’

Napoleon was still for a moment as he thought. Crushing as his victory had been, the Russians might not have lost heavily enough to persuade them to consider peace. If they could only have been pursued and forced to abandon their artillery, if they had left behind a long tail of stragglers for Murat to deal with, then their spirit would have been utterly broken. Napoleon shrugged. ‘A pity. But then we are all tired.’

Thought of his men’s weariness served to remind the Emperor of his own exhaustion, and he could not help shivering for a moment. Berthier saw the tremor and his eyes widened in concern.

‘Sire, are you all right?’

‘I’m fine. I need some rest. Is there a bed in here?’

Berthier gestured to a small arched door opening on to a small cell. ‘In there, sire. A bunk belonging to the local priest.’

‘Good. I’ll sleep now. Wake me before the third hour. Have the reports ready to present to me then.’

‘Yes, sire.’

Napoleon wearily made his way into the priest’s humble sleeping quarters, where a single candle guttered in a bracket on the crudely plastered wall. There was a small table and stool, a cupboard, and the bed: a simple straw mattress covered in worn blankets. Napoleon undid the buttons of his greatcoat and spread it out on top, then sat down and pulled off his boots before easing himself under the blankets and laying his head on the rough hessian of the bolster. He was asleep almost as soon as he shut his eyes and Berthier smiled to himself as his master began to snore. Then he turned back to his reports and began calculating the cost of victory.

‘The enemy losses are over fifteen thousand killed; another twelve thousand are prisoners. In addition we have captured nearly two hundred cannon and fifty standards,’ Berthier read from the summary he had prepared.

Napoleon stretched his shoulders until he felt the muscles crack, then straightened his spine and clasped his hands firmly behind his back as he braced himself for the other side of the balance sheet. ‘And our losses?’