Napoleon shrugged. 'Change it.'

'By yourself? That's demanding a lot of one man.'

Napoleon smiled. 'It's been done before, sir. I've read enough history to know. Alexander, Caesar, Augustus – they took the world and reshaped it according to their beliefs.'

'I know. The first died young, the second was betrayed and murdered by men he considered friends and the last turned his republic into a tyranny. Hardly good role models. Besides, they were all aristocrats, Buona Parte. More proof that history is merely the history of their class.' He smiled. 'Or is it that you aspire to their status? You think you might be a man of destiny… well?'

Napoleon blushed. He found this open talk of his most cherished, private ambitions acutely embarrassing. 'It – it's not for me to say, sir. We are the servants of destiny.'

'No, we're not.' Father Dupuy shook his head sadly.'We are the servants of fools like Alexander de Fontaine. It is up to them to make the history. We are simply the raw material used in the process.' He looked at Napoleon closely, waiting for the response.

'I'm not raw material, sir. I'm better than that. I think my academic record proves it.'

'I know it does, Buona Parte. I've been following your progress closely.' He smiled.'I suppose you saw me simply as a teacher.That I am, but I have other interests and I'm keen to promote ability, in whatever social class I find it.You might be surprised to know that there are some aristocrats who feel as you do about this situation.'

Naploeon's eyebrows rose. 'Really? I've yet to meet them.'

'Oh, you shouldn't judge France by this institution. It is, after all, merely an institution. If you want to encounter the great minds of the age you must go to Paris.'

'You think I could achieve something, sir?' Napoleon felt his heart lighten. For the first time since he arrived at Brienne he felt as though he was being taken seriously. He felt as if the potential he had been aware of in himself was at last being recognised.

Father Dupuy nodded. 'I believe so. To be honest, I thought you were a precocious little swine when you arrived at Brienne, but now I know you well enough to realise that you have a first-rate mind. Despite your poor performance in most of my subjects.'

Napoleon laughed. It was true.While he had mastered French, albeit without eliminating his Corsican accent, he was only mediocre at Latin, and abysmal at German – a language that to his ear sounded like someone gargling and spitting gravel. 'I'm sorry, sir. I will try harder.'

'So you should. Fluency in a range of languages is a vital skill. Sometimes more is lost in translation than meaning.'

Napoleon nodded. He thought he understood the point. Perhaps not. The solution was obvious – at some point men would have to be compelled to speak the same language.

'Anyway, Buona Parte, your grasp of history is excellent and you're something of a prodigy at mathematics. But, I must confess, your most impressive attribute is your force of personality. Of course, it is also your greatest flaw. You'd do well to remember that.'

Napoleon frowned. He had not considered himself to be strong-willed. It had not occurred to him to see it in those terms. Rather, he had always been surprised by the feeble-mindedness he found in others. The failure of his peers to grasp a mathematical principle he had put down to laziness or a measure of wilful stupidity so typical of these aristocrats. Equally, he had understood that those people he could browbeat into bowing to his will, did so out of a weakness of character. The idea that he was innately better than others amused him for a moment, before it began to win a measure of conviction in his mind. Maybe he was superior to some people… to most people. It was an attractive proposition and one that implicitly justified the soundness of his views over those of others.

'What do you intend to do with your life?' asked Father Dupuy. 'After you leave Brienne.'

'I haven't decided, sir. My father thought I might join the army.'

'Then you will still need to win a place at the Royal Military School of Paris.'

Napoleon looked at him eagerly. 'When's the earliest I can apply to the military school, sir?'

Father Dupuy pursed his lips in thought. 'The school's inspector makes his assessments in autumn for the next year's intake. Fifteen is the minimum age for admission. That gives you less than two years from now. I doubt you'd be ready by then.'

'I will be, sir. I give you my word.'

'Good. Until then, you must tolerate these aristocrats. You must learn that what you lack in money, you make up for in other riches. You have a potential that no amount of money can buy, Buona Parte.' He leaned across the table and punched the boy lightly on the chest. 'Now, go outside, and enjoy yourself. I don't know about you, but I find there's something about snow that refreshes my soul and makes me feel twice as strong and half as old. So, go on!'

'Yes, sir.' Napoleon pushed back his chair and stood up. Stuffing his father's crumpled letter into his pocket he made for the door. Then he paused, looked back at Father Dupuy and smiled gratefully. 'Thank you, sir.'

'Napoleon, one thing.'

'Sir?'

'If you see Alexander de Fontaine out there, make sure you throw a snowball at him for me.'

Napoleon laughed. 'You can count on it!'

The snow lay thick on the ground but already the tracks of hundreds of boys had crisscrossed the courtyard. Napoleon wound his scarf around his neck and stuffed the ends into the top of his greatcoat. He pulled on his mittens before striding across towards the boys who were playing in the field beyond, small dark figures on a white and black landscape. As he got closer he could see that a few had gathered in one corner of the field to throw snowballs at each other and their shrill shouts of excitement were deadened by the snow.

'Hey! Napoleon!'

He saw Louis de Bourrienne beckoning to him from the fringes of the snowball fight. Napoleon made his way over towards his friend, the snow crunching softly beneath his boots. The boys in the corner of the field had stopped the fight and now gathered in a circle. The strident voice of Alexander called on them to be quiet as Napoleon reached his friend and nodded a quick greeting.

'What's going on?'

'Alexander wants to organise things. Make a proper battle of this.'

'He wants a battle, does he?' Napoleon mused and edged his way into the crowd until he was standing at the front where none of the taller boys could block his view.There, in an open space in the middle of the group, stood the commanding figure of Alexander de Fontaine.

'We'll have two sides. One either end of the field. Let's give ourselves until the college clock strikes twelve to prepare defences and then the battle begins.'

'How will we know when it's over?' someone asked.

Alexander thought about it for a moment. 'We should have banners.The winner is the first to capture the other side's banner.' He glanced round and reached towards one of the nearest boys. 'Your scarf. Give it to me.'

'But, Alexander, it's cold. I need it.'

'I said give it to me.' He held out his hand. 'Now.'

The other boy quickly unravelled his yellow scarf and handed it to Alexander. The latter smiled. 'Fine. Now we need one more…' His eyes swept round, and stopped on Napoleon. 'Yours. Red is a good colour. I'll have yours.'

'Very well,' Napoleon said. 'Here. On the condition that we are not on the same side.'

Alexander laughed. 'If you think for a moment that I'd fight alongside a Corsican peasant then you're a bigger fool than I thought you were. Of course we'll be on opposite sides. In fact, I'm going to make you general of your side. I'll lead the others.'