The royal expeditionary column halted in the sheltered lee of a massive red sandstone bluff two miles south of the battle crater.
The dry wind whistled through the jagged crevices of the rock, carrying fine crimson grit that coated the hoods of the supply carts in a dull rust powder.
Thirty royal spearmen collapsed into the sparse shade cast by the cliffs, unbuckling their dented greaves with exhausted groans.
The draft horses stood with heads hanging low over dry canvas nosebags, their ribs expanding sharply against their leather traces in the suffocating heat.
Two royal quartermasters dragged a pair of crates from the second wagon, dropping them onto the red earth with a dull thump.
"Standard marching rations," one quartermaster called out hoarsely, using a short prybar to wrench open the nailed pine lid.
"Two hardtack biscuits and half a cup of salted brine per soldier, strictly by imperial regulation," the supply clerk announced, wiping gritty sweat from his forehead.
