This is the shore of the seagirt land of Lemnos, untrodden by mortals, not inhabited. Here it was, you who were reared as the son of the noblest father among the Greeks, son of Achilles, Neoptolemus, that I once put ashore the Malian, the son of Poeas—on the orders of those in command—whose foot was dripping from a malady that was eating it away; since we could not pour libations or sacrifice in peace, but he filled the entire camp with savage and ill-omened cries, shouting and screaming. But why must I talk of that?

—Sophocles, Philoctetes¹