You come along too, lad.
- Where are we going? - To Pianosa...
reconnaissance and boar hunting.
I think the wind will help us.
Grab the pans, dried codfish, and onion stew.
Trackers and hunters this way!
Beloved Majesty, notre soleil!
Notary Bonci Baccelli, historic leader of Elba's hunters.
I yearn for your command!
Let us go.
Your Majesty used to come here with your esteemed father.
Sadly, it's true.
Our only happy moments are from childhood...
but recalling them is sad...
because a passion for ourselves has set in...
which leads us toward vanity...
until death.
That's the meaning of life in a nutshell.
I'm speechless!
In position for hunting.
On our way, mouths sealed because boars have keen ears.
As if the boars are waiting for him!
Two rifles are weighing you down, give me one.
Thank you.
Isn't that better?
In position.
Let the hunting begin, unleash the hounds.
If you ask me, there's something brewing.
- The boars are approaching? - No way!
The other night they had us unload a sailboat...
five heavy coffers, I think they were full of money.
Yes.
They were taken away on wagon in the night.
I bet they're part of a secret plan against the English.
Weapons?
There's never been so much boat traffic...
day and night, as you've noticed.
I have.
I'll go take a look.
Beware of vipers.
Why are you here?
Boars...
There are no boars.
Positions are there.
- The boars are down there. - Down there.
If there are any.
The hunt is over.
It's over.
- I'd better take the rifle. Yes.
Because...
It's beyond meo Your Majesty...
there's usually an abundance of game here.
At least we got some fresh air, worked up an appetite.
Aren't you hungry?
I command the troops to attack the dried codfish.
How funny!
Your Supremacy, we nominate you honoris causa...
one of us, a rough and tough Tuscan of the woods and coast.
Hurray!
If Your Supremacy consents, I'll recite my lyrical poem
about our passion for stomping turf and hunting game.
- It's lovely. - Let's start.
"At every minute of the day, with fervent hearts we make our way...
one eye open, the other closed, finger on the trigger we are posed...
with attentive ears we prowl, to hear the boar's growl.
- When suddenly..." - Short, but effective. Bravo.
- You should write more, let's eat. - Thank you.
Let's eat.
- He liked it! - Very much!
Majesty, it's unbelievable, terrible...
the boars ate evetything.
Nothing works on this damn island!
The bread, salami, cheese, galantine!
While you were up there, in one second they came...
Shoot him!
Then we'll roast and eat him.
He was kidding!
He's so funny he slays me!
Lovely...
we're snacking together.
How odd, we attribute grace to the sparrow...
and fierceness to the lion...
yet they both devour live beings, insects or lambs.
What's the difference?
Are you not writing?
Should I write that the sparrow is as cruel as a lion?
If you don't mind.
You were speaking of fallen soldiers.
The two themes are connected.
Nature says the strongest overcome the weakest. So...
Write...
During the crucial point of a battle, he who uses unexpected artillery...
is sure to win...
with no worries of fallen soldiers.
What is it?
How is that possible?
I just told you.
Position the troops so they're easily gathered.
How is it possible to not worry about fallen soldiers?
War can be written about, it can't be waged as it's written.
What impedes us from considering war and death one in the same?
Fear! It obliges us to think about victory.
Woe is you if you write that.
You cannot imagine the pride...
and desperate joy of the many people I saw die.
- Thousands of people! - I know!
Don't meddle in my anguish...
stupid boy, how dare you!
Evetything's fine, thank you Ali.
I'm sorry...
but I can't bear hearing you apply arithmetic...
to my pain.
Tell Marchand to bring some cognac.
Have you forgiven me?
Of course! Yes, yes.
I've heard some rumors about you...
about our little teacher...
- You rascal! - The Baroness...
- Can I serve you? - Sure.
I hear she's rather beautiful.
- Cheers. - Cheers.
We're friends... I have the honor of her friendship.
You're quite the gentleman too.
So you're a master in the classroom and in the bed.
His mother and sister Paolina are here too.
- They're so stylish. - It's true.
Silence.
Mr. Papucci?
This is for you, it's urgent.
We could go eat some fritters with sugar.
Enough, don't overdo it.
- Be happy that you took me to mass. - Alright.
Where's that madman going?
Martino?
- Some biscuits and sweet wine, why not? - Stop it.
Where is she?
Hello.
- What a surprise! - I couldn't resist.
I just disembarked, I wanted to see your home.
Since I can't see you anymore, I can picture you in your settings...
in your bed...
with your books, toy soldiers...
your wooden top!
With your rag bear, how sweet!
- What's its name? - I didn't even know I had that.
- May I keep it? - Go ahead.
Thank you. I'll call it Martino.
The cordial you requested.
Thank you.
You may leave, dear.
- Close the door. - Yes, sir.
Sweet thing, she's in love with you.
- Who? - The servant, didn't you notice?
Mirella? Oh, please!
Listen to what I'm forced to hear and write...
"In war the best calculation of genius is audacity.
An army is a sword with glory as its hilt."
- Read, it's amusing. - I hear he's fond of you.
That's absurd, I hate him.
This is sweet: "Love is a folly acted out by two people".
He's a true expert of the human psyche...
not just a bloodthirsty strategist...
he's also an expert of medicine, naval engineering...
and noodle soup.
Let's act out this folly, me and you.
Make love?
Yes.
What's going on here?
- Madam surprised me. - Good evening.
Good evening.
A surprise? You surprised me!
- What manners! - I could say the same for you!
How dare you barge into someone's room?
Someone who?
Dear Madam, I'm the lady of the house.
You're a rather boorish lady of the house.
That's true.
- You're a harlot! - It's better than being a spinster!
Who, me? I'm betrothed.
- To whom? - To whomever I want.
To him!
Cosimo Bartolini?
- But I thought that... - I changed my mind.
He's not a winner, but most men aren't.
Especially once you've married them.
- Thank you. - You should see my husband...
- Why? - We even hit each other once.
He wanted his mother's portrait above the bed...
she looks like a witch!
Dearest Diamantina...
excuse me, I'm thrilled about the news you just gave me.
Simmer down, the Baroness was talking...
go wait downstairs.
Sure, we'll talk about our matters after.
Downstairs, you half-witted dope!
Take a seat.
- You were saying about your husband? - He's never acted his age...
he's 80, remove the zero and he's 8.
His mother still makes him soup and feeds him.
- Horrific! Why not leave him? - And eat bread and flies?
Better a poor husband, you can leave him with no regrets.
Or even a young handsome one like Martino.
It's true.
But it's too late for me now, I'm old.
You're a rosebud!
You've lost weight too.
Out of sadness, seeing my home half-empty like that...
They've removed most of my furniture.
Enough whining, I'll leave now.
Why don't you stay the night?
I was invited to stay with Count Pallavicino.
Head to Marciana at this hour, no such thing!
The sheets are fresh and the bed is big enough.
- Thank you. - No, thank you!
I'm honored to have made your acquaintance.
My respects.
- Good night. - Good night.
- Martino, behave with the Baroness now. - Go away.
Why are you here?
I was waiting for that chat people have...
when they make important decisions.
Move it, you half-wit pinhead!
Will you help me?
Yes. Yes.
Kiss me, this is our last time.
Last time.
This and this.
Will the Baroness be needing this?
Take it just in case.
- Want a hand? - No, thank you.
Why are you still here?
Go away! Pleaseo go away.
I'll take them inside.
Don't worry, I won't tell anyone.
Thank you.
You have to hold tight.
Careful with the painting of Baron Mimi and his beloved mother.
Okay, alright.
Pascalina, hurry we're shivering!
Do you know Martino and I are no longer together?
Stop it.
When I go back to Naples, we'll never see each other again.
Stop it.
Isn't he delightful? Too bad he's always cross.
- Do you know why? - Enough!
Because he despises Napoleon.
- Enough, what does she care? - She cares and how!
Pascalina is Corsican, she was the Bonaparte's servant.
What can I say?
I loved him like a son.
Sit down, tell us what he was like as a child.
What was he like?
A lad who was obedient, kind...
and very sad.
Many a night I woke up to console him...
because he cried in his sleep.
- How old was he? - Nine, ten.
But through the years, he didn't change.
When his father, hoping to be forgiven by the French...
for having supported independence...
decided to send him to military school in Paris...
he was devastated.
He was 16...
he didn't want to go!
He was afraid of moving to another land.
He was ashamed he spoke French so poorly.
Poor thing!
I'll bring more water.
Blockhead!
Piece of shit!
Martino!
- What happened? - A disaster.
Bastard, how can you say such a thing with that idiotic face!
- Not the onions! - With the onions.
- Diamantina, what happened? - Ferrante was shipwrecked.
We don't know that, I just relayed the news.
With that moronic smile! "There was a tragic, violent storm...
hope Ferrante's all right."
- He was laughing! - I didn't want to alarm you.
- I'm sure they're not all dead. - Shut up, idiot!
- Miserable! - Not the codfish!
- Miserable! Idiot! - Easy with the dried codfish!
- Relax. - That man...
Evetything is fine.
That man brought a curse upon this island.
- Me? - I'm talking about N.
- N? - I don't even want to say his name.
Who gave you the news?
Sailors from Livorno who arrived this morning...
they found the Santa Marina dismasted near Majorca...
the lifeboat was gone... I just relayed the news.
- Laughing! - I wasn't laughing!
One disgrace after another, now Mirella too...
Why? What does Mirella do?
She doesn't want to stay here, she left for her grandmother's...
this morning at dawn.
- Why? - How should I know?
Calm down.
- Calm down. - Poor Ferrante! I wonder what happened.
What?
It's my fault, I should've left instead of him.
- It would've been the same. - Exactly...
- See, he's laughing! He's laughing! - No!
I'm trying to lift your spirits, turtledove.
Now that we're engaged, I feel responsible for you.
Engaged my foot, the turtledove is dead!
I've changed my mind.
Laugh now you moron!
She dumped me?
She dumped me!
Goodness, my heart...
- No, no, no. - Sorry.
Carry on.
I'd better not, I'll ruin it.
How proud I was when they told me...
Beethoven composed it for me.
- Actually... - I know!
Then he changed his mind, like many did.
Many...
Write it down.
What?
Napoleon cries.
Write that?
Yes, son, we'll let everybody know!
Write...
On January 23, 1815...
Napoleon Bonaparte declares himself...
reformed, remorseful...
no, repentant, write repentant and that's that.
Don't write that's that.
Alright.
You bring out the sincerity in me.
- Ad posteritati notum 'facer'. - Facere.
Right! Facere.
Latin rouses the anguish of my days in military school.
There's a notebook in the secretaire.
Thank you.
"I'm always surrounded by men...
I abandon myself...
to the impetus of my dolefulness.
Which way is it facing?
Toward death."
Toward death!
I was 17 and I wanted to die.
I was hateful!
I was ridiculous with my Corsican accent.
I hated them all.
I hated France.
- I should write this. - Yes! No...
No, write: "I wasn't fond of France".
No, no, no.
I'm hungry, let's have a snack. Marchand? Snaks!
Damn!
Am I still the traitor Beethoven repudiated his love for...
even though I'm now convinced he was right?
Sit down.
Doesn't repentance count?
Should it be content with itself?
I can tell you're thinking something.
Say it.
You can't expect repentance to be rewarded immediately.
That is true...
my friend.
- Aren't you hungry? - No.
Watch.
Sorry.
Alright. Thank you.
I guess his Majesty would like to attend another concert this evening.
Please, Campbell.
Please.
I adore my guardian!
Colonel Campbell, I adore him!
- Grab today's work. - Yes, sir.
I heard about your brother...
I had a message sent to all the harbor offices.
Thank you!
Evetything will be fine.
I hope so.
- I'll write a few words to my wife. - Yes.
I have a wife and a three-year-old son.
I'd like my son here, not her.
He's beautiful and blond.
I wonder what language he speaks, French or German?
See you tomorrow, Majesty.
What is it?
I thought I saw...
What is it? Who's there?
- Come on! - Alert!
- Alert!
What were you going to do?
Murder! Murder!?
Let's take him.?
Call all guards!?
Come on, don't do that.
Don't think about it.
I'm sorry, Emilia.
I got him arrested.
Martino.
My teacher!
Damn me!
Madame? We have a visitor...
My God.
My friend!
I was searching for you.
- Ali told me. - A gift for you.
It's only mother of pearl, but it's worth more than what you saved...
this old shell of a king.
Heavens!
I come bearing trinkets in a home which contains a treasure!
Please excuse the invasion...
it's an old habit of mine...
I'm honored by your presence.
- Majesty? - Yes.
I know the person you had arrested.
I know...
and I know you care for him.
He's an exceptional person.
- He lost his son in... - Marengo, I know.
What will you do to him?
Poor thing, what will they do to him?
Nothing. The war is over.
No more death, no more blood.
- Am I right? - Yes, Majesty.
Thank you.
My God.
How are you?
Fine, thank God!
I never stopped thinking about you.
Dearest Pascalina...
you've always been in my heart.
What honor.
Ferrante!
Easy there!
We were so worried about you!
You crushed me!
Big brother!
- Little brother. - You stink...
but you look nice with a beard.
Let's go home.
Dearest Ferrante, we were all so concerned!
- Bartolini, why the kisses? - We're family now, tell him.
Now's not the time!
- Alright. - Let's go home.
- Can I carry your bag? - You'll carry nothing.
- What's this about "we're family"? - Tell you later.
- It's not set in stone! - I'll lead the way, enter.
At one point, we see a brig pass by...
we get up and shout out "help"!
Nothing, we were on our last legs.
When we'd lost hope, they turned back and came to get us.
We were elated, but we get on board and...
They were pirates!
The same thing happened to my mother's uncle!
They sent us below deck, four days and nights of bread and water...
we arrive in Algiers. You should see how nice it is, Martino.
Nice!
Even if it was terrifying, they took us to the medina...
and sold us to a merchant, Mustafa...
a good man!
He made us unload bales of fabric day and night...
but we ate well together...
there were musicians and dancers...
what beauties...
The famous bayadere beauties, right?
- Would you shut up! - I'll shut up.
- Who decided he's family now? - It's not set in stone.
Brother, an experience worth writing a book about.
- Write! - I learned lots of Arabic words.
It means "My love, I love you."
What were you up to?
Shut up, you've never even been there!
What's going on outside?
Everybody's running toward the fortress.
In positions!?
Present arms!?
Brogi?
Falaschi?
Foresi?
The son of Beppe the miller.
- What's your name? - Lucianino, Maestro sir.
- Stop it. - That's right.
Aren't you ashamed?
- The condemned cannot speak. - Silence! Shut up!
- He told us to be ashamed. - Shut up!
You start off as bootlickers and end up assassins.
Look who's talking, Maestro, you wanted to kill!
Don't call me Maestro! Did I teach you to become beasts?
We shouldn't kill anyone, not even Napoleon, he's done good!
- Silence! Shut up! - He's a good man.
Look at the good he's done to me.
You asked for it!
I agree with him, we shouldn't hurt people.
Tell it to those cowards.
I repeated the right ideas to you over and over...
but you have heads and hearts of stone.
- Stop it! Stay back! - You shut up!
He can't speak!
You think shooting people doesn't make us suffer?
- We do it if it's necessary! - Get ready!
Obey your commander, that's all you know how to do.
- Slaves! Prepare arms! Attention!
Do as he commands, you duffers!
Shoot, you animals, you beasts!
Ass-kissers!
What are you waiting?
Shoot!
Happy now?
Maestro, did you get what you wanted?
No!?
Damn you all!
Assassins!
Traitor!
Assassin!
Assassin! Assassin!
Death to the tyrant.
Long live freedom.
He fled...
He fled!
Where is he?
Damn him, he pretended he'd construct roads and buildings...
Champagne for two! He must've slept with some whore...
Dearest Martino...
I've longed to write you every day but never had the nerve to...
so much time has passed...
who knows how much longer I'll have to tell you this...
I allowed myself to be conquered by the Emperor...
because I was certain I had conquered him.
You fell for it tooo don't deny it.
That man is conquered by himself only.
- Enough, I'm getting soaked. - But so am I!
You're subordinate, get soaked.
- Get off your high horse! - He thinks he's family too...
Boss, all set, the wagon's almost loaded.
- Go then. - It's raining.
- So get wet. - Can't I wait a bit?
- Go! - I'll get sick.
After we fled from Elba...
in 100 days he formed an army...
he wono torchedo killed...
he was defeatedo and sent to a remote island...
let's hope it's forever this time.
But meanwhileo there were 70o000 more deaths.
The load for Porto Longone is setting sail.
Good job.
Very well, good.
I've just finished chapter 54...
the arrival in Algiers.
- What chapter did you read up to? - 50.
Bravo, thank you.
18 pages.
Last night I wrote about when we were sold at the market.
You're blocking my flow.
Talk to me later.
Here. Martino?
Remember, your opinion means a lot to me.
I've written 300 pages and my head's still chock-full!
We'll make another trip for the barrels of Aleatico wine.
You handle it, you're good, thank you!
I'll come for the pages later.
"Suddenly, a vessel so grand appeared before our eyes...
A grand vessel."
My Waterloo occurred shortly after his.
If we crossed pathso you wouldn't recognize me.
I have gray hairs and more wrinkles around my eyes.
I'll take that.
Give me him, you'll scare him.
He's mine too. Darling?
Isn't he the spitting image of my father's uncle?
- You're sick, you half-wit. - Look at his profile.
When I feel sado I hope you're not as precious anymore...
my dear Martino.
I hope you've grown bald and have a potbelly.
If you write backo I beg you to tell me it is so.
Actuallyo there's no need to reply.
Let's forget about it and remain what we were for each other.
Farewello Emilia.
How nice, breakfast in bed!
Thank you.
- Did you sleep well? - He kept kicking!
You can feel him now.
He can't wait to get out.
How odd.
Where was it again?
Your sister found it under the donkey's hay.
Odd!
I'm so happy!
Really, really happy!
GIORGIO FONTANELLI MAESTRO AND PROFESSOR
Goodbye, Maestro.
"He felt destiny imposed a new task upon him...
a definitive task."
"He said goodbye to his family and left for St. Helena...
but he got there too late."
IT WAS MAY 6, 1821
"...MAN IS NOT RESPECTED FOR HIS GARMENTS
BUT FOR HOW MANY TYRANT'S SCALPS HE HANDLES." S.E. V RASPINI