"Twice the size of my smallest hens, and resplendent in his golden breeches, Titus is a dead ringer for Holbein’s Henry VIII. He arrives that evening, upside-down, legs strapped together with a length of bandage, swinging like a nightwatchman’s lantern from Gilles’s outstretched arm. It’s not the most dignified entrance, but – wincing – I take comfort from the thought of the dishy harem that awaits him."
