The red sun sank below the western mountains, and dark clouds drifted in from the east. Before their eyes, another heavy rain was about to arrive. August was the height of the plateau's rainy season, with storms coming and going without warning, and few clear days to be had. Large-scale military operations all became difficult. August was also the busy farming season, with early-ripening pumpkins soon to be harvested. For the sake of the year's livelihood, the able-bodied people of every tribe had to busy themselves in the fields, making it hard for them to take part in military mobilization.
Overall, in the realm of Mesoamerica, where the tribes were in turmoil and slaughtered one another year after year, fiery-hot August was nevertheless a rare month of peace. At least, for the past thousand years and more, it had always been so.
"Nashu, what day is it today?"
Xolotl sat cross-legged on the carpet of the stone hall. He drank a bowl of sweet, clear pumpkin soup and gnawed two pieces of soft Tortilla. Then he peeled open a freshly boiled, large Turkey Egg, tasted that familiar and rare egg flavor, and let out a satisfied breath, somewhat moved.
The Captain of Warriors Bertad sat beside the king as well, eating the soup and flatbread in great mouthfuls, but he had no Turkey Egg.
Yes, there was no need to doubt it—in this era, Turkey Egg was also a precious ingredient, something only great nobles could enjoy. A hen turkey of laying age, even with plentiful food, would only lay eggs once or twice a week. The vast majority of Turkey Eggs had to be used for hatching, to produce meat that was equally scarce.
As for hens from the Old Continent, they were far more productive, able to lay