Griselda was performed only once at Rome’s Teatro Capranica in 1721, towards the end of Alessandro Scarlatti’s career. It was probably sponsored by Prince Ruspoli, who had been Handel’s major Roman patron 15 years earlier. The libretto, adapted from Boccaccio’s Decameron, portrays Gualtiero relentlessly testing his wife Griselda’s fidelity. We learn that many years before he claimed to murder their daughter, and at the beginning of the opera he tells Griselda that he shall renounce her and marry another woman.

Under extreme provocation Griselda remains dutiful and loving. Although Gualtiero’s Machiavellian approach to marriage seems unjustifiably cruel, the librettist cleverly justified it by rendering Gualtiero in a more sympathetic light: transformed into the King of Sicily, it is not he who doubts his wife’s fidelity, but his murmuring people who dislike the thought of a common shepherdess sharing the throne. Gualtiero’s cruelty is enforced by the need to prove his wife’s strength, and his deception is ultimately a wise strategy to teach his kingdom that nobility is a quality of heart rather than birthright. Rather than portraying Gualtiero as a sadistic swine, Scarlatti’s opera tells us that his steadfast love for Griselda motivates him to gamble everything. Furthermore, the young princess who he invites to replace his wife is, naturally, their long-lost daughter Costanza.

There is a lot of recitative among the irony, deceptions and intense passions, but the action progresses at a compelling pace, and the concise arias are consistently inventive, unpredictable and attractive. Dorothea Röschmann brings dignified integrity to a dangerously subservient title-role, and Lawrence Zazzo’s lyrical singing is both sweet and theatrical as the complex Gualtiero. Veronica Cangemi’s steely voice is judiciously cast as Griselda’s daughter Costanza, and Bernarda Fink is strong and stylish as her lover Roberto. Silvia Tro Santafé is arrogant and dislikable as Ottone, which is entirely right for the King’s malcontent villainous servant. Kobie van Rensburg displays marvellous assured coloratura that flows smoothly, and it is good to hear a tenor of such quality in this repertoire.

If Griselda represents one of Scarlatti’s finest artistic achievements, it is apt that this recording accordingly shares a similarly privileged status within René Jacobs’ discography. The conductor is helped by the alert brilliance of the Akademie für Alte Musik Berlin, which clearly relishes the splendid score. Jacobs paces the drama sensitively, and characterises the arias with intelligence. His only sin is overly fussy decisions about restless recitatives in which the continuo is historically implausible and artistically intrusive. Yet whether you love or loathe Jacobs, this is an immensely important achievement.

Of course Handel was not the only talented opera composer working in the early 18th century, but at long last we have a genuinely credible comparison on disc. Indeed, this recording of Griselda does much to explain why Handel’s librettist Charles Jennens slyly remarked that the Saxon regularly pinched musical ideas from Scarlatti. If it is true that the Italian master composed 114 operas, then, like Handel, I eagerly await sampling from the next one.