Alatriste

In the 17th century, though surrounded by enemies,

Spain still dominated the world.

The king was Philip IV, the "Planet King",

and his territories were ruled with an iron hand by his favourite,

the Count-duke of Olivares.

To Flanders, the Americas, the Philippines,

part of Italy and North Africa,

Portugal and its colonies had been added,

but it was in Flanders, in a long, cruel war,

where the battle for the Empire's survival was to be fought.

An Empire sustained by professional armies

whose main core were veterans

of the dreaded Spanish infantry regiments.

This is the story of one of those men...

Flanders, winter, 1622

Here, Count!

Count, cover us!

Retreat!

Stay close to me, Count.

Hold on to my shirt.

Die, Catholic dog!

Damn.

Lope.

My son...

My son, Diego...

My son, Diego. My son.

Don Diego Alatriste: In compliance with the wishes of my father,

who died, may God rest his soul, in the land of heretics,

I send you my brother Inigo, whom I have not the means to maintain.

He knows mathematics, can read and write,

is obedient and quick to learn,

though somewhat given to fantasy and stubborn. MADRID, ONE YEAR LATER

As you know, my father wanted him to study, MADRID, ONE YEAR LATER

to go to university, but he wants to be a soldier.

I pray that God and Your Honour may forbid such a thing.

Ana Balboa,

Oñate, Guipuzcoa.

Which one's that?

"M".

You're glum today, don Francisco.

How fares your memorial?

I do believe Philip the Great and his favourite Olivares

have wiped their arses on it.

That's still a great honour.

An honour for his royal arse.

It was good paper, costing half a ducat per ream,

and in my best hand.

Rumour has it that Olivares begins to hold you in esteem.

Yes.

He even gives me leave to live in Madrid.

He needs your verses.

Damn you, Captain!

You make a better friend than an enemy.

So they say.

Excuse me, senor de Quevedo.

My friends and I were wondering if certain verses were yours...

"Here lies, in black tomb hemmed, lifeless and condemned

who sold his soul for profit vile

and e'en in death lacks flair and style."

"In black tomb hemmed..."

Might be improved if they were mine. Right, Inigo?

Of course, don Francisco.

In any case,

is Gongora so ruined that they dedicate epitaphs to him?

Not that I know of.

I hear don Luis de Gongora still enjoys good health.

So good that he still writes the best poetry in Spain.

Don't waste your steel so early in the day, don Francisco.

And on such a trifle.

The merriment's over.

The cuckold constable.

Quiet,

or I'll kick your arse to kingdom come.

Back to work.

Diego, I have work for you.

There's someone who needs you.

Safe work,

no risks involved,

save the usual ones, of course.

And for a good purse... to share.

To share?

With whom?

Follow me.

Two foreign gentlemen.

They'll enter Madrid alone, on horseback, this Friday night.

Payment for your services

will be 60 escudos in doubloons. To share. Agreed?

That suits me.

We are each three gold pieces short.

To be paid when the work is done to satisfaction.

To whose satisfaction?

My sons,

I am Father Emilio Bocanegra,

President of the Council of the Inquisition.

The two heretics must die.

Mercy!

Mercy!

Mercy for my companion!

- Leave him! - Do you jest?

None of this is clear.

They are not simple heretics.

We can kill them another day.

We shall meet again.

Diego, you are in a fine mess.

I imagine so.

The news will soon spread and all Madrid will be in an uproar.

Now to the point.

Who commissioned you?

People.

Don't annoy me, Diego. What people?

That's what I'd like to know, Excellency.

I didn't see their faces.

And your companion in the ambush? Didn't you see his face either?

As Your Excellency knows, I always hunt alone.

Diego, this is not an interrogation by the Inquisition.

Well, it's up to you.

It's your neck, not mine.

But, out of curiosity...

Do you know who you almost killed last night?

No, Count. I give you my word on that.

I believe you.

Then why didn't you kill them?

I had a presentiment.

Sir, matters of extreme gravity took place last night.

The Prince of Wales and the Duke of Buckingham

have entered Madrid incognito.

They wish to be received by Your Majesty.

They were almost killed in an ambush.

I have ordered an investigation to find the culprits.

Sir, this unexpected visit obliges us to take a decision

concerning the possible marriage of your sister,

Princess Maria, and the Prince of Wales.

I have called the Council of State

and the Committee of Theologians to give you their opinion.

Thrust!

Go on!

You're not so good.

Come on, thrust!

What is it, Inigo? You look as though you'd seen a ghost.

No, no.

They say the English prince was ambushed.

Well.

Do they know who did this?

Thieves, they say.

People have too much imagination.

Go get some wine.

You brute.

Help me up.

I can't walk.

How shall I get home?

I'll carry you.

Am I very heavy?

No.

No.

What's your name?

Inigo Balboa.

Page to Captain Diego Alatriste.

I like soldiers.

My name's Angelica.

Will you remember?

Of course I'll remember.

I hope so.

You can put me down now.

I hope you know what you're doing.

I know, don't worry.

Dismiss those men.

Don't kill that Batriste... Latriste, whatever his name is, yet.

- But, madam... - I have plans for Inigo.

I need that captain to look after him until the time comes.

Then you can kill him.

Yes, Captain, 'tis a comedy.

Commissioned by Olivares for the queen.

And don Rafael here will produce it.

- A great honour. - And will you be paid

or will it be on account for future favours as usual?

I know nothing of favours. Today is yesterday, tomorrow is yet to come.

For the present Olivares has promised 500 reals.

A comedy...

Not your speciality.

- How dare you? - No, the captain's right.

But if poor Cervantes tried one, why can't I?

Don Francisco, my wife, the great actress Maria de Castro.

And Captain...

Alatriste.

Diego and I know each other.

What are you thinking?

I should stay away from married women.

Unless she's the most desired woman in Spain.

I haven't seen this one before.

It's been a long time.

Almost three years.

I've missed you.

Not in Italy.

It came to a bad end. She finally married another.

I heard that.

You've changed, Diego.

Perhaps I'm getting old.

Or because of that boy who lives with you.

You know I like to know everything.

He's the son of a friend who died in Flanders.