TARZAN AND THE LOST EMPIRE
A tall black in the stern of the dugout shook his head. “I do not understand you,” he said. “You are our prisoners. We are going to take you with us to our masters. Come, get into the boat. If you resist or make trouble we shall kill you.”
“They speak a strange language,” said Gabula. “I do not understand them.”
Surprise and incredulity were reflected in the expression on von Harben’s face, and he experienced such a sensation as one might who looked upon a man suddenly resurrected after having been dead for nearly two thousand years.
Von Harben had been a close student of ancient Rome and its long dead language, but how different was the living tongue, which he heard and which he recognized for what it was, from the dead and musty pages of ancient manuscripts.
He understood enough of what the black had said to get his meaning, but he recognized the tongue as a hybrid of Latin and Bantu root words, though the inflections appeared to be uniformly those of the Latin language.
In his student days von Harben had often imagined himself a citizen of Rome. He had delivered orations in the Forum and had addressed his troops in the field in Africa and in Gaul, but how different it all seemed now when he was faced with the actuality rather than the figment of imagination. His voice sounded strange in his own ears and his words came haltingly as he spoke to the tall black in the language of the Caesars.
“We are not enemies,” he said. “We have come as friends to visit your country,” and then he waited, scarce believing that the man could understand him.
“Are you a citizen of Rome?” demanded the black.
“No, but my country is at peace with Rome,” replied von Harben.
The black looked puzzled as though he did not understand the reply. “You are from Castra Sanguinarius.” His words carried the suggestion of a challenge.
“I am from Germania,” replied von Harben.
“I never heard of such a country.You are a citizen of Rome from Castra Sanguinarius.”
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