Journal of Napoleon Bonaparte

Italy, 1796–1797

March 11, 1796 – Nice

They have given me command of the Army of Italy — a ragged, starving host with threadbare boots and rusted sabres. The old generals mock this posting as a punishment, a trap perhaps. But I see a crown in it.

Italy. The land of my ancestors. The land of Caesar. The land where glory still whispers between the broken columns and sleeping statues. I am not going to wage war — I am going to carve a name into marble.

I have written to Josephine. She is slow to reply. Perhaps she does not yet believe what I will become.

April 12, 1796 – Montenotte

Our first engagement, and already the Austrians retreat.

My men doubted at first — thin, ragged souls who had never known victory. I spoke to them like a prophet on a mountain: “Soldiers, you are naked and ill-fed... but you are the heirs of the greatest soldiers in the world!” Their eyes lit up.

I gave them purpose. And they gave me victory.

May 10, 1796 – Lodi

Today, at the bridge of Lodi, I felt something strange: fear — but not mine. Theirs. The Austrian generals, the old world, felt me coming like a thunderclap.

As the smoke cleared and the bridge fell to us, I stood in silence. The men cheered, but I... I looked across the river and saw a vision: France at my feet, Europe in my grasp.

Lodi baptized me. Not with water, but with power.

June 15, 1796 – Milan

I entered Milan not as a soldier, but as a sovereign.

Crowds lined the streets. Tricolors waved from balconies. And in their cheers, I heard not love, but awe — the beginning of the myth. They call me liberator, genius, even savior. I smile. But I do not believe them. Not yet.

Josephine has written. Her words are sweet, but distant. She does not yet know how far I intend to rise.

November 17, 1796 – Arcole

Arcole tested me. Three days of swamp and blood, of missed opportunities and broken nerves. But I crossed that damn bridge myself, banner in hand, fire in my veins.

Sometimes a leader must be the bullet.

The Austrians fled again. The Republic lives — and I, its champion, am no longer a man among generals. I am something else. Something inevitable.

April 7, 1797 – Leoben

The Austrians sue for peace. The war, they say, is over.

But peace is a mask. Beneath it, I still see ambition, vengeance, empire. I signed the preliminaries with a steady hand, knowing full well this is only a pause.

France owes me nothing. I owe it nothing in return. I have taken what I need: the army’s loyalty, Italy’s treasure, and the certainty that I was born for more than this.

They still see me as a servant of the Republic. Let them. For now.

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