Who, or what, are Les Abencérages, you might well ask. There’s a clue in the subtitle, which is ‘The Standard of Granada’. The setting is Moorish Spain in the 15th century, where the Abencerrages and the Zegrí are rival clans. Cherubini’s opera was premiered at the Paris Opéra – located at the time in a theatre, long since demolished, in the present-day rue de Richelieu – on April 6, 1813. It was attended by Napoleon and Marie-Louise, a week before the emperor set off for Germany and his defeat, six months later, at the battle of Leipzig.

The libretto was by Étienne de Jouy, who already had Spontini’s La vestale and Fernand Cortez under his belt, and was later to collaborate with Rossini on Guillaume Tell. The distinguished cast included Caroline Branchu and Henri-Étienne Dérivis, who had both appeared in the Spontini operas, and Louis Nourrit (father of the more famous Adolphe): all three happened to be born in the same year, 1780. The opera opens with the vizier Alémar telling his fellow Zegrí, Kaled and Alamir (the near homophone is not helpful), that he plans to bring down the Abencerrage general Almanzor, who is about to marry the princess Noraïme. The wedding celebrations are interrupted by news that the current truce with the Spaniards has been broken. The Spanish general Gonzalve, sent on a goodwill mission by Ferdinand and Isabella, leaves after expressing friendship towards Almanzor, who now prepares for battle.

In Act 2 Almanzor returns victorious; but he has lost the banner of Granada, for which the punishment is death. The sentence is commuted to exile, but if he returns without the flag he will be executed. He does return, to see Noraïme, and is arrested by Alémar. Only a champion could save him. Enter a warrior, his visor lowered, who challenges and slays Alamir, then uncovers his banner: it is the standard of Granada and the warrior is Gonzalve, who reveals that it was handed over to the Spaniards on the orders of the vizier Alémar. The traitor is taken away, and all rejoice.

Bru Zane has done a marvellous job in producing a scholarly edition and an excellent recording of this unknown opera, which soon disappeared from view. The music is excellent, too, but – although one should be cautious about assessing the dramatic effectiveness of an opera without seeing it – the work is flawed, because it takes so long to get going. The first act lasts over an hour, after a substantial overture. It starts promisingly, first with a trio for Alémar and his fellow conspirators, followed by an air for Almanzor and a duet with Noraïme. After that it gets bogged down in more than half an hour of wedding celebrations in song and dance. There are only 12 minutes left for the temperature to rise, with news about the broken truce. The remaining acts, at 43 and 54 minutes respectively, are much tauter.

But there are musical plums aplenty in this overlong first act. Almanzor apostrophising Noraïme is charming, as is the duet; the choral celebrations bounce along nicely, with dotted rhythms; the air ‘Poursuis tes belles destinées’, with several testing top B flats, shows the decency of Gonzalve. The variations on ‘Les folies d’Espagne’ put the orchestra through its paces, including solos for harp, flute, violin and horn. And there is more delightful orchestration in the prelude to Act 3, the horns followed by the rich tone of divided violas and cellos. (Do the cellos have the top line, as in the slow movement of Mendelssohn’s First Piano Concerto?) All this is beautifully played by the Orfeo Orchestra, matched by the sturdy singing of the Purcell Choir which, like the orchestra, is based in Budapest.

Edgaras Montvidas is touching in ‘C’en est fait’, Almanzor’s farewell in Act 2; the fresh-toned Anaïs Constans is wonderfully expressive in ‘Épaissis tes ombres funèbres’, the air following the third-act prelude. Artavazd Sargsyan, slightly taxed by Gonzalve’s air, is appropriately authoritative when he arrives as the challenger. Thomas Dolié, sounding almost too noble when hypocritically addressing the assembly, snarls impressively in the vengeful ‘D’une haine longtemps captive’, an air that looks back to Dourlinski’s ‘Oui, par mon heureuse adresse’ in Cherubini’s Lodoïska of 1791. The conductor György Vashegyi is a fine advocate for Cherubini, the man whom Beethoven described as ‘the greatest living composer’.