Free Daughters of the Doge by Edward Charles Page A

than nine o’clock in the morning, and the heavy frost still everywhere, when we brought our carts to a standstill at Fusina, the end of the road, some twelve miles from Padua.
    Our road from Padua had been flat, running beside the Brenta Canal, and on a normal day we could have loaded everything on to a barge at Padua and taken our ease. But today was not a normal day and the canal had frozen. The advice from the barge-men had been given with a shrug:‘What’s the hurry? Wait another couple of days until we get a storm. The rain will warm it all up and the canal will be open.’ They appeared to have no sense of urgency.
    But having come so far, we felt honour-bound to continue our journey to its finish – and the finish we had agreed was Venice. Now we stood at the end of the road and looked across the last few hundred yards to the island city.
    ‘There it is. Venice. La Serenissima. Journey’s end.’ I could see that Thomas was going to take pleasure in acting as our guide and already his waved hand had the pride of a proprietor.
    We all nodded in satisfaction as our horses blew in the cold morning air.
    ‘How do we cross?’ It was Thomas, ever practical, who voiced the question we were all asking ourselves. Somehow, we had convinced ourselves that whilst the canal, with its fresh water, was frozen, the saltwater lagoon would remain open.
    The lagoon looked to be deeply frozen, a dirty white with no sign of the darkness below that would signify water. It appeared the ice was thick – thick enough to walk on and tracks seemed to indicate that men and carts had crossed on previous days. Still, it was one thing to theorize about the possibility of crossing safely, but quite another to launch yourself, your horse and your possessions, in a heavy cart, out across the expanse of ice. We waited, uncertain.
    Behind us, down the barren road, two little boys appeared, leading a mule and small cart. They greeted us in amusement, clearly realizing that we were wondering what to do. They began to remove small flat wooden boxes from their cart and stack them beside the road. We watched, bemused. Aware that they were the centre of attention, the boys continued without explanation until the cart was empty. Then the younger one, who had been looking at our foreign clothing and listening to our accents, spoke:
    ‘You cannot use horses. They will slip and panic. Horses are no good.’
    We asked what the alternative was.
    ‘Oxen.You must unhitch the horses and let the oxen take the cart. You can lead the horses across by hand, following the carts. That’s the only way you will get them to walk out on the ice – by following the carts.’
    We nodded, and the boy, all of six years old, swelled with pride at his superior knowledge.
    ‘Where will we find oxen?’ asked Thomas, in his kindly voice.
    The other boy now joined in, anxious not to let the younger one steal our attention. He jerked his thumb over his shoulder. ‘They are coming, look.’
    Sure enough, a dozen ox-drawn carts were trundling towards us, followed by another dozen or so loose oxen. They ground towards us and stopped.
    ‘These gentlemen require oxen,’ shouted the younger boy, full of importance. The man sitting on the leading cart shrugged, as if that news was of no significance to him. ‘And chopines ,’ called the older boy, and they both burst into giggles.
    ‘Why do we need chopines?’ I asked. I had seen Lady Jane made to wear these platform-soled cork shoes at her investiture, to make her look taller.
    ‘For the horses,’ replied the younger boy. ‘They must wear them to prevent their hooves from slipping. Look, I will show you.’ He ran to one of the waiting carts and removed a sack, which he carried back to us on his shoulder. Although it was huge, he carried it easily and it was clear that the contents, although bulky, were light. He tipped it out on to the roadway in front of us. They were like boots, made of sacking, large enough to cover