This arch has no sign, no plaque, nothing to tell you what it is. But the old people of Bari call it the Arco delle Streghe, the arch of the witches, and they lower their voices a little when they say it. Here is what they say. In the old days, some of the women of this quarter lived two lives. By day they were wives and mothers, loving, ordinary, the sort of woman you would greet at the well without a second thought. But at night, they became the gatte masciàre, the witch cats. They would climb up onto the rooftops in the dark, take off their clothes, and smear their bodies with a secret ointment, known as the witches' oil. Then, chanting the words of the spell, they would leap from the roofs into the empty air, and as they fell, they changed, so that what landed softly on the pale stones below was not a woman at all, but a black cat. If you were out after dark and a black cat fixed you with its stare, right here, you were in danger. But there was a defence. You crossed yourself, and you spoke the words the grandmothers still remember, a little rhyme asking the mistress of the night to let you pass, and calling on Jesus, Joseph, and Mary to keep you safe. Say it right, and the spell was broken, and the cat was only a cat. And there is one tale I have to leave you with. It is said that there was a husband who began to suspect his wife. Night after night, she slipped away, and he did not know where. So one evening, quietly, he found her jar of secret oil and replaced it with ordinary cooking oil from the kitchen. That night, as always, she climbed to the roof, anointed herself without knowing, spoke the words, and leapt. And in the morning, they found her on the flagstones below. Not a cat. A woman. Fallen, and still. Is it true? Of course not. But stand here as the light fades, look up at those rooftops and down at these pale stones, and tell me you cannot half believe it. That is what a good legend does. Walk on now. Follow the map to the great castle.